mm 


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'SB  EHHBffififi 


BY  MISS  LESLIE, 

Author  of  «  Girl's  Own  Book,"  «  Atlantic  Talcs," 
"  Mrs.  Washington  Potts,"  "  House  Book,"  "  Book  of  Behavior."  Ac. 


NEW  YORK : 
KIGGINR   &   KELLOGG,    PUBLISHER.- 

123   *  125  WILLIAM   STREET. 


E.NTIEKD  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in   the   year   1853,  bj 
HENRY    F.    ANNERS, 

In  the  Clerk'i  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  Tales  by  Miss  LESLIE,  have  been 
published  separately  at  different  periods,  -within  the 
last  twenty  year?,  ami  the  Publisher  now  presents 
them  in  a  collective  form,  for  the  edification  of  the 
numerous  admirers  of  the  writings  of  this  popular 
Authoress.  Of  their  merits  he  does  not  presume  to 
speak,  sensible  that  nothing  he  could  say  would  add 
to  the  estimation  in  -which  they  have  ever  been  deser- 
vedly held. 


t,  1853. 


Tho    Souvenir, 5 

The  Cadet's  Sister, 24 

Susanna  Meredith;  or  the  Village  School, 50 

The  Launch  of  the  Frigate, 86 

The  Show  Girl, 102 

The  Clean  Face, 148 

Frederick  Ormsby, 119 


THE     SOUVENIR. 

IT  was  the  afternoon  of  Christmas  eve.  The 
weather  was  delightfully  mild  for  the  season, 
and  the  sky  was  without  a  cloud.  The  streets 
of  Philadelphia  were  unusually  crowded,  and 
the  whole  appearance  of  the  city  was  gay  and 
animated.  The  fancy  stores  were  resplendent 
with  elegant  ribbons,  laces,  scarfs,  and  reticules, 
and  the  shops  for  artificial  flowers,  made  a  dis- 
play which  rivalled  nature  in  her  most  blooming 
season.  It  was  a  pleasing  spectacle  to  see  so 
many  parents  leading  their  children,  all  with 
happy  faces  ;  some  full  of  hope  and  others 
replete  with  satisfaction  ;  some  going  to  buy 
Christmas  gifts,  others  carrying  home  those 
already  purchased.  Mr.  Woodley  went  out  with 
his  two  boys  to  choose  little  presents  for  them, 
regretting  that  Amelia,  his  eldest  daughter,  was 
1*  5 


6  THE    SOUVENIR. 

obliged  to  remain  at  home  in  consequence  of  a 
severe  cold. 

They  soon  entered  a  toy-shop,  where  Charles 
made  choice  of  a  toy  representing  William 
Tell  directing  his  arrow  toward  the  apple  on  the 
head  of  his  son,  who  stood  blindfold  at  a  little 
distance,  and,  by  pulling  a  string,  the  arrow  took 
flight  and  struck  the  apple  off  the  boy's  head. 
This  Charles  called  a  very  sensible  toy,  and  his 
father  bought  him  also  a  box  containing  little 
wooden  houses,  churches,  and  trees,  which  could 
be  so  arranged  as  to  form  a  village. 

Oswald,  who  was  long  since  past  the  age  of 
toys,  selected,  at  a  neighbouring  shop,  a  very 
pretty  and  curious  little  writing  apparatus  of  the 
purest  and  most  transparent  white  marble.  It 
looked  like  a  very  small  vase,  but  it  contained  an 
ink-stand,  sand-box,  wafer-box,  a  candlestick  for 
a  wax  taper,  and  a  receptacle  for  pens  :  all  nicely 
fitting  into  each  other,  and  so  ingeniously  con- 
trived as  to  occupy  the  smallest  space  possible. 

"Oswald,"  said  Mr.  Woodley,  "you  have 
chosen  so  well  for  yourself,  that  I  will  leave  to 
you  the  selection  of  a  present  for  your  sister 
Amelia.  Oswald  thought  of  many  things  before 
he  could  fix  on  any  one  that  he  supposed  would 


T II E     8  O  U  V  E  N  I  B .  < 

be  useful  or  agreeable  to  Amelia.  She  had 
already  a  handsome  work-box,  a  bead-purse,  and 
a  case  of  little  perfume  bottles.  For  a  moment 
his  choice  inclined  to  one  of  the  eleganfcreticules 
he  saw  in  a  window  they  were  just  passing, 
and  then  he  recollected  that  Amelia  could  make 
very  beautiful  reticules  herself.  At  last,  he 
fixed  on  a  Souvenir,  and  wondered  that  the 
thought  had  nnt  struck  him  before,  as  Amelia 
drew  very  well,  and  was  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  fine  engravings. 

They  repaired  to  a  neighbouring  book-store, 
where,  amid  a  variety  of  splendid  Souvenirs, 
Oswald  selected  for  his  sister  one  of  those  that 
he  considered  the  most  beautiful,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  carrying  it  home  to  her. 

To  describe  the  delight  of  Amelia  on  receiv- 
ing this  elegant  present,  is  impossible.  She 
spread  a  clean  handkerchief  over  her  lap  before 
she  drew  the  book  from  its  case,  that  it  might 
not  be  soiled  in  the  slightest  degree,  and  she 
removed  to  a  distance  from  the  fire  lest  the 
cover  should  be  warped  by  the  heat.  After  she 
had  eagerly  looked  all  through  it,  she  commenced 
again,  and  examined  the  plates  with  the  most 
minute  attention.  She  then  showed  them  to 


8  THE     SOUVENIR. 

her  Jittle  brother  and  sister,  carefully,  however 
keeping  the  book  in  her  own  hands. 

"  Amelia,"  said  Oswald,  "  I  know  a  boy  that 
would  b^yery  happy  to  examine  this  Souvenir. 
He  has  no  opportunity  of  seeing  any  thing  of 
the  kind,  except  by  gazing  at  the  windows  of 
the  book-stores." 

Jlmelia. — And  who  is  this  buy  ? 

Oswald. — His  father,  who  has  seen  better 
days,  is  an  assistant  in  our  school,  and  the  boy 
himself  is  one  of  the  pupils.  His  name  is 
Edwin  Lovel.  He  has  a  most  extraordinary 
genius  for  drawing,  though  he  has  never  had 
the  means  of  cultivating  it  to  any  extent.  He  is  a 
very  sensible  boy,  and  I  like  him  better  than  any 
one  in  the  school.  His  mother  must  be  a  nice 
woman,  for  though  their  income  is  very  small, 
Edwin  always  makes  a  genteel  appearance,  and 
is  uniformly  clean  and  neat.  He  is  also  ex- 
tremely handsome.  All  his  leisure  time  is 
devoted  to  drawing.  He  first  began  on  the  slate, 
when  he  was  only  .four  years  "old,  and  had 
nothing  else  to  draw  on  till  he  was  nine  or  ten. 
Now,  he  saves  what  little  money  he  has,  for 
the  purpose  of  buying  paper  and  pencils.  He 
has  no  box  of  colours,  but  draws  only  in  Indian 


THE     SOUVENIR.  » 

ink,  which  he  does  most  beautifxzlly.  He  never 
likes  to  see  any  thing  wasted  that  can  be  used 
for  drawing,  and  is  even  glad  to  get  the  cover 
of  a  letter. 

Amelia. — You  remind  me  of  the  French  artist 
Godfrey's  fine  picture  of  the  battle  of  Pultowa, 
which  he  drew,  while  in  prison,  on  the  backs  of 
letters  pasted  together;  using,  instead  of  Indian 
ink  or  colours,  the  soot  of  the  stove-pipe  mixed 
with  water. 

Osu-ald. — Well,  Edwin  Lovel  is  not  quite 
so  much  at  a  loss  for  drawing  materials,  for  he 
has  a  cake  of  Indian  ink  and  four  camel's  hair 
pencils.  He  draws  with  a  pen  beautiful  title- 
pages,  decorated  with  vignettes,  for  his  copy- 
books and  cyphering-books  ;  and  the  boys  pay 
him  for  ornamenting  their  writing-pieces.  Ilr 
was  for  a  long  time  very  unwilling  to  take  money 
for  those  things,  but  we  finally  prevailed  on  him, 
though  with  great  difficulty.  He  passes  most  of 
his  evenings  in  drawing;  that  is,  when  he  has 
any  candle  of  his  own,  for  he  will  not,  even  in 
the  pursuit  of  his  favourite  gratification,  <• 
the  slightest  additional  expense  to  his  parents, 
who  find  it  very  hard  to  live  on  his  father's 
small  salary. 


10  THE     SOUVENIR. 

Amelia. — What  an  excellent  boy  he  must  be. 

Oswald — Last  Saturday  afternoon,  I  thought 
I  would  go  for  him  and  take  him  to  see  some 
very  fine  pictures  which  were  to  be  sold  at  auc- 
tion on  Monday.  The  door  was  opened  by  a 
half-grown  black  girl,  (their  only  servant,)  who 
was  probably  not  accustomed  to  admitting 
visiters,  and  therefore,  knew  no  better  than  to 
show  me  at  once  up  stairs  to  Edwin's  chamber  ; 
a  very  small  place,  perfectly  clean,  but  furnished 
in  the  most  economical  manner.  There  Avas  no 
fire  in  the  room.  Edwin  was  sitting  at  a  little 
pine-table  with  his  great  coat  on,  and  his  feet 
enveloped  in  an  old  muff  of  his  mother's  to  keep 
them  warm.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  copy- 
ing a  head  of  Decatur  from  a  China  pitcher, 
improving  on  it  so  greatly  as  to  make  it  a  very 
fine  drawing. 

Amelia. — Poor  fellow  !  had  he  nothing  belter 
to  copy  ? 

Oswald. — Why,  I  asked  him  that  qnesticn, 
but  he  confessed  that  he  was  at  so  great  a  loss 
for  models  that  he  was  glad  to  imitate  any  thing 
he  cduld  get ;  and  that,  having  no  instructor,  he 
knew  no  better  way  to  pick  up  a  little  knowledge 
of  the  general  principles  of  the  art,  than  by 


THE     SOUVENIR.  11 

copying  every  thing  that  came  in  his  Avay, 
provided  it  was  not  absolutely  bad.  I  then 
reminded  him,  that,  as  he  could  make  admirable 
sketches  from  his  own  imagination,  I  thought 
he  need  not  copy  at  all ;  but  he  disclaimed  all 
pretensions  to  designing  well,  and  then  said 
that,  even  if  his  original  attempts  were  tolerably 
successful,  as  outlines,  it  was  only  by  drawing 
from  prints  or  pictures  that  he  could  acquire  a 
just  idea  of  keeping,  or  of  the  distribution  of 
light  and  shadow.  He  showed  me,  however, 
several  original  drawings,  which  my  father 
would  say  evinced  an  extraordinary  degree  of 
talent,  and  some  admirable  copies,  though  many 
of  them  were  taken  from  very  coarse  prints  for 
want  of  better. 

Amelia. — How  very  glad  he  would  be  to 
have  this  Souvenir  to  draw  from. 

Oswald. — He  would  indeed.  But  that  Sou- 
venir costs  three  dollars,  and  I  do  not  suppose 
that  he  ever  had  three  dollars  in  his  life,  poor 
boy — I  mean  three  dollars  at  once. 

Amelia. — I  will  willingly  lend  it  to  him. 

Oswald. — He  has  so  little  time  to  draw,  that 
it  would.be  a  great  while  before  he  could  return 
it ;  or  rather,  he  would  be  so  uneasy  at  keeping 


12  THE     SOUVENIR. 

it  long,  that  I  know  he  would  send  it  back  before 
he  had  half  done  with  it.  And,  besides,  he 
would  have  no  satisfaction  in  drawing  from  your 
book,  as  he  would  be  in  continual  fear  of  drop- 
ping his  brush  on  one  of  the  leaves,  or  of 
accidentally  injuring  it  in  some  way  or  other. 
He  is  very  unwilling  to  borrow  any  thing  that 
is  new  or  valuable. 

Amelia. — What  a  pity  that  a  boy  of  so  much 
genius  should  find  any  difficulties  in  his  way. 

Oswald, — There  are  too  many  similar  in- 
stances. Some  of  the  most  distinguished  artists 
of  the  present  age  have  been  obliged,  in  early 
life,  to  struggle  with  indigence,  and  indeed, 
with  absolute  poverty,  much  as  Edwin  Lovel  is 
now  doing. 

The  next  morning,  Amelia  said  to  her  brother 
as  soon  as  she  found  him  alone,  "  Oswald,  I 
wish  to  ask  you  one  question.  When  we  re- 
ceive a  present  does  it  not  become  our  own  ?" 

Oswald. — C  ertainly . 

JJmelia. — And  we  are  at  liberty  to  do  exactly 
what  we  please  with  it  ? 

Oswald — Precisely only  I  think  we  had 

better  not  destroy  it. 


I  11  E     Si)  U  VK  N  1  II.  18 

Amelia. — Of  course,  not — but  we  may  give  it 
away  ? 

Oswald — Why — I  do  not  know — I  should 
not  like  to  give  away  a  present  received  from  a 
valued  friend. 

Amelia. — But  if,  in  giving  it  away,  you  make 
the  person  on  whom  you  bestow  it  more  happy 
than  you  yourself  could  possibly  be  made  by 
keeping  it  ? 

Oswald. — If  you  were  sure  that  that  would 
be  the  case 

Amelia. — Oh  !  I  am  very  sure — I  can  answer 
for  myself.  Therefore,  dear  brother,  I  beg  your 
acceptance  of  my  Souvenir. 

Oswald. — Why,  Amelia,  your  kindness  sur- 
prises me.  You  know  I  have  already  a  Christ- 
mas gift  ?  the  beautiful  writing  case  that  my 
father  bought  for  me  yesterday.  I  cannot  take 
your  Souvenir. 

Amelia. — Dear  Oswald,  for  once  allow  me  to 
make  you  a  present.  It  is  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  have  had  it  in  my  power  to  offer  you  any 
thing  of  consequence.  I  shall  be  so  happy,  if 
you  accept  it. — There  it  is,  (laying  the  Souvenir 
on  Oswald's  knee.} 

2 


14  THK      SOUVENIB. 

Oswald. — But  Amelia,  how  can  you  part  so 
soon  with  your  beautiful  Souvenir  ?  You  were 
so  delighted  with  it  last  evening. 

Amelia. — I  know  every  thing  in  it — I  ex- 
amined all  the  plates  with  the  greatest  attention, 
and  I  read  it  through  before  I  went  to  bed. 

Oswald — (smiling). — Well,  Amelia,  though 
you  are  so  generous  as  to  make  me  the  owner 
of  the  Souvenir,  you  know  it  will  still  remain  in 
the  house.  I  will  put  it  carefully  away  in  my 
little  book-case,  and  whenever  you  wish  to  look 
at  it,  just  tell  me  so,  and  you  shall  have  it  at 
any  time. 

Amelia — (looking  disappointed). — But,  Os- 
wald, are  you  going  to  keep  it  always  ? 

Osborn. — Always,  as  the  gift  of  my  loving 
sister. 

Amelia. — But  I  do  not  insist  cn»your  keep- 
ing it  for  ever,  dear  Oswald.  You  may  give  it 
away  again — I  shall  not  be  the  least  offended  if 
you  give  it  away,  provided  you  bestow  it  pro- 
perly. Indeed,  I  would  rather  you  should  give 
it  away  than  not — and  as  soon  as  possible,  too — 
this  very  day,  if  you  choose. 

Oswald. — Surely,  Amelia,  you  have  a  very 


Tilli     SOUVENIB.  16 

S 

strange  way  of  making  a  present ;   desiring  it 

to  be  given  away  again  immediately. 

Amelia, — Why,  Oswald,  you  know  you  do 
not  draw. 

Oswald. — No,  indeed,  to  my  great  regret. 

Amelia. — And,  if  you  did,  my  father  would 
always  take  care  that  you  should  be  well  sup- 
plied with  models. 

Oswald. — I  suppose  he  would,  as  he  never 
lets  us  want  for  any  thing  that  could  add  to  our 
improvement. 

Amelia. — Had  not  the  Souvenir  better  be 
given  to  a  person  that  docs  draw  very  well, — 
beautifully,  indeed, — but  that  has  no  money  to 
buy  models  ? 

Oswald. — In  one  word — Had  not  the  Sou- 
venir better  be  given  to  Edwin  Lovel  ? 

Amelia. — Yes,  since  it  must  be  told,  that  is 
exactly  what  I  mean. 

Oswald. — So  I  guessed  from  the  beginning. 
But  why  did  you  take  such  a  roundabout  way 
of  getting  the  book  put  into  his  possession  ? 

Amelia. — Why,  I  do  not  suppose  he  would 
accept  it  from  me,  a  young  girl  whom  he  has 
never  seen  ;  but  he  would  be  less  scrupulous  in 


16  THE     SOUVKNIK. 

taking  it  as  your  gift,  as  you  are  an  acquaint- 
ance of  his. 

Oswald. — Say,  a  friend. 
Amelia. — I  know  you  so  well,  that,  after  our 
conversation  last  night,  I  was  certain,  if  I  gave 
the  book  to  you,  you  would  present  it  at  once 
to  the  poor  boy ;  and  I  was  much  disconcerted 
when  you  pretended  at  first  that  you  would 
keep  it  always. 

Oswald. — Amelia,  the  book  is  yours  and  the 
suggestion  is  yours,  and  I  will  not  assume  to 
myself  more  merit  than  I  deserve.  If  you  are 
determined  on  giving  the  Souvenir  to  Edwin 
Lovel,  the  best  way  is  to  seal  it  up  in  a  sheet  of 
white  paper  addressed  to  him,  and  with  a  few 
words  written  on  the  inside,  requesting  his 
acceptance  of  the  book  from  an  unknown 
admirer  of  early  genius. 

Amelia. — An  excellent  plan — I  wonder  I 
did  not  think  of  it  before.  I  will  set  about  it 
directly. 

Oswald. — Here  is  a  sheet  of  Amies's  best 

letter-paper,  and  here  is   my  new  writing-box. 

Let  it  be  used  for  the  first  time  in  a  good  cause. 

Amelia — (sits  down  and  writes.} — I  never 

wrote  any  thing  with  more  pleasure. 


THE     SOUVENIR.  17 

X 

Oswald. — Be  sure  to  put  "  early  genius." 

Amelia. — I  have. 

Oswald. — Let  me  see  -I  never  saw  any 
writing  of  yours  look  so  pretty.  Now,  I  will 
put  up  the  parcel,  and  tie  it  round  with  red 
tape,  and  seal  it,  for  girls  seldom  do  such  things 
well — (fie  folds  the  book  in  t/ie  paper,  ties,  and 
seals  it.)  There,  now  direct  it. 

Amelia. — The  next  thing  is,  who  shall  we 
get  to  carry  it  to  Edwin  ? 

Oswald. — Why  not  William  ? 

Amelia. — I  do  not  wish  my  father  to  know 
it,  lest  he  should  think  I  set  too  little  value  on 
his  Christmas  present ;  and  I  will  never  ask  a 
servant  to  do  any  thing  for  me  that  is  to  be 
kept  from  the  knowledge  of  my  parents. 

Oswald. — That  is  right.  I  will  take  the 
packet  to  the  Intelligence  Office,  round  the 
corner,  and  give  one  of  the  black  boys  that  are 
always  loitering  there,  a  trifle  to  carry  it  to  Mr. 
Level's,  and  just  leave  it  with  whoever  opens 
the  door. 

Amelia. — That  will  do  very  well.  New, 
Oswald,  make  haste,  for  I  hear  my  father 
coming. 

,      Oswald   easily  procured  a  boy  to  carry  the 
2* 


X  UK     .SO  U  V  t  N  1  1C  . 


packet  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Lovel,  who  lived  in 
one  of  the  upper  cross  streets.  The  door  was 
opened  by  the  black  girl,  who  immediately  re- 
cognized the  boy  as  ^an  old  acquaintance,  and 
commenced  a  conversation  with  him.  "  Why, 
Ben,"  said  she,  "  what  is  this  you  have  brought 
for  Master  Edwin  ?  I  guess  its  a  book.  It 
looks  'xactly  like  one.  All  done  up  so  nice, 
and  sealed.  Why,  I'm  puzzled  who  sended 
it."  "  He  did  not  tell  me  his  name,"  replied 
the  boy,  *<  but  I  guess  I  know  who  he  is,  for 
all  that.  Its  Master  Oswald  Woodley,  Mr. 
Woodley  the  great  merchant's  eldest  son.  My 
aunt  is  cook  there,  and  I've  often  been  in  the 
kitchen.  And  he  gave  me  a  quarter-dollar  for 
carrying  it ;  and  it  must  be  'livered  into  Master 
Edwin's  own  private  particular  hands." 

So  saying,  he  departed,  and  the  girl  ran  up 
to  Edwin's  room,  holding  out  the  parcel  and 
saying,  "Master  Edwin,  here's  a  book  for  yoa, 
signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  ;  sent  by  Master 
Oswald  Woodley,  oldest  son  of  Mr.  Woodley 
the  great  merchant." 

Edwin  took  the  book,  and,  on  opening  it,  was 
much  surprised  to  find  the  note,  written  in  a 
female  hand,  and  the  name  of  Amelia  Woodley 


Til  K     SO  UVKN  I  K  .  10 

on  the  presentation  plate  of  the  Souvenir,  which 
had  been  inscribed  by  her  father  the  preceding 
evening,  and  which  she  had  forgotten  to  erase 
before  she  sept  it  away.  For  some  time,  his 
pleasure  in  examining  the  beautiful  plates  ab- 
sorbed every  other  consideration,  and  it  was 
not  till  he  had  gone  twice  over  them,  that  he 
thought  of  the  mystery  connected  with  the  book. 
His  honorable  principles  determined  him  not  to 
accept  it,  as  he  saw  that  there  was  some  secrecy 
about  the  whole  transaction,  and  that  probably 
the  generous  young  lady,  whose  name  it  bore, 
had  sent  it  to  him  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
parents.  The  beauty  of  the  book  was  a  great 
temptation,  and  he  would  have  derived  much 
pleasure  from  copying  some  of  the  fine  plates, 
but  still  he  could  not  reconcile  it  to  his  con- 
science to  keep  it,  neither  would  he  betray  the 
hind-hearted  Amelia  to  her  father.  He  resolved 
to  seal  it  up  again,  and  leave  it  himself  at  Mr. 
Woodley's  door,  addressed  to  Oswald. 

He  took  his  last  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  in 
it  as  follows  : — 

"  Accident  has  discovered  to  me  to  whom  I 
am  indebted  for  a  most  beautiful  present,  but 
though  it  has  excited  my  warmest  gratitude,  I 


20  THE     SOUVENIR. 

cannot  consent  to  accept  it  under  circumstances 
of  mystery  to  which  the  parents  of  my  kind 
friend  may  be  strangers.  I  return  it  with  a 
thousand  acknowledgments.  EDWIN  LOVEL." 

Having  looked  once  more  at  the  engravings, 
he  put  up  the  Souvenir,  and  set  out  himself  to 
leave  it  at  Mr.  Woodley's  house,  intending  to 
desire  the  servant  that  opened  the  door  to  give 
it  to  Master  Oswald. 

Mr.  Woodley  was  sitting  at  the  centre-table 
looking  over  some  English  newspapers,  and  he 
found  in  one  of  them  a  high  eulogium  on  a  new 
picture  by  an  American  artist,  now  in  London. 
He  read  the  piece  aloud,  and  when  he  had  con- 
cluded, "  Amelia,"  said  he,  "  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, there  is  in  your  Souvenir  an  engraving 
from  this  picture.  Let  me  look  at  it  again." 
Amelia  colored  and  knew  not  what  to  say,  and 
Oswald  also  seemed  much  embarrassed.  "  My 
dear,"  pursued  Mr.  Woodley,  "  did  you  not  hear 
me  ?  If  you  can  get  the  book  conveniently,  I 
should  like  to  look  at  that  plate."  Amelia,  con- 
fused and  trembling,  tried  to  speak  but  could 
not,  and  her  eyes  were  immediately  filled  with 
tears.  "  Amelia,"  said  Mr.  Woodley,  «  has 
any  accident  happened  to  the  Souvenir  ?"  "  No, 


THE     SOUVENIR.  21 

my  dear  father,"  she  replied,  "but  I  have  given 
it  away."  "  Is  it  possible,"  said  Mr.  Woodley, 
(( that  you  were  so  soon  tired  of  your  father's 
Christmas  gift  ?"  "  Oh  !  no,  no,"  replied  Ame- 
lia, "  but  there  is  a  poor  boy  who  draws  beauti- 
fully, and  I  thought  it  would  make  him  so  happy. 
Dear  Oswald,  tell  the  whole." 

Oswald  then,  as  concisely  as  possible,  related 
all  the  circumstances  ;  and  Mr.  Woodley,  after 
gently  blaming  the  children  for  disposing  of  the 
book  without  consulting  their  parents,  kissed 
Amelia,  and  commended  her  kindness  and  bene- 
volence in  bestowing  her  Souvenir  on  poor 
Edwin  Lovel. 

Just  then  a  ring  was  heard  at  the  front  door, 
and  William  brought  in  and  gave  to  Oswald  the 
packet,  which  had  been  left  that  moment  by 
Edwin.  "  Ah  !"  exclaimed  Oswald,  on  opening 
the  parcel,  "  this  is  so  like  Edwin.  He  sends 
back  the  Souvenir."  He  then  gave  Edwin's 
note  to  Mr.  Woodley,  who,  after  reading  it,  went 
to  the  desk  and  wrote  a  billet  addressed  to 
Edwin's  father,  in  which  he  requested  him  to 
permit  his  son  to  join  his  family  that  day  at  their 
Christmas  dinner.  William  was  immediately 
despatched  to  Mr.  Level's  with  the  note,  and  in 


22  THE     SOUVENIR. 

a  short  time  Edwin  arrived,  looking  very  happy , 
and  Mr.  Woodley  shook  him  heartily  by  the 
hand,  on  being  introduced  to  him  by  Oswald. 
Then,  taking  up  the  Souvenir,  he  held  it  out  to 
Amelia,  and  desired  her  to  present  it  a  second 
time  to  her  brother's  young  friend.  (f  With  rny 
sanction,"  said  Mr.  Woodley  to  Edwin,  "you 
will  not  again  refuse  my  daughter's  gift,  though 
you  so  honorably  returned  it  when  you  suspected 
that  she  offered  it  unknown  to  her  parents." 

Edwin  spent  the  day  with  the  Woodley  family, 
who  were  all  delighted  with  his  modesty  and 
good  sense,  and  Mr.  Woodley  made  him  promise 
to  repeat  his  visit  as  often  as  he  had  leisure. 
That  evening,  Amelia's  uncle  brought  her  a 
present  of  an  Album,  bound  in  green  morocco 
and  handsomely  gilt,  and  Edwin  requested  that 
she  would  allow  him  to  take  it  home  and  draw 
something  in  it. 

When  he  returned  the  Album,  it  contained 
copies,  in  Indian  ink,  of  the  most  beautiful 
plates  of  the  Souvenir,  executed  in  Edwin's 
very  best  manner.  Mr.  Woodley  presented 
Edwin  with  a  port-folio,  containing  a  selection 
of  fine  prints,  and  eventually  made  arrange- 
ments with  a  distinguished  artist  to  take  him 


THE    SOUVENIR.  28 

as  a  pupil ;  his  taste  for  drawing  being  so 
decided,  and  his  indications  of  genius  so  extra- 
ordinary, it  was  thought  best  to  yield  to  his 
desire  of  making  painting  his  profession. 

Finding  Edwin's  father  to  be  a  very  deserving 
man,  Mr.  Woodley  assisted  him  to  re-establish 
himself  in  business,  regretting  that  he  should  so 
Jong  have  been  condemned  to  the  irksome  life 
of  a  teacher  in  a  school.  He  was  soon  enabled 
to  occupy  a  better  house,  and  to  live  once  more 
ia  the  enjoyment  of  every  comfort. 


THE    CADET'S    SISTER. 


FOUNDED    ON    FACT. 


The  seme  is  at  Mrs.  Lesmore's  house  in  one  of  the 
on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson — the  time  is  the  latter  part 
of  a  summer  afternoon — Mrs.  Lesmore  sewing  at  a 
table  in  her  front  parlour — Laura  seated  opposite  to 
her,  icith  her  drawing  materials. 

LAURA.  Dear  mother,  I  believe  I  must  put 
up  my  drawing  for  this  day.  I  cannot  draw  as 
well  even  as  usual,  my  mind  being  so  much 
engrossed  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  my 
brother  this  afternoon.  I  feel  too  happy  to 
think  of  any  thing  else.  See,  I  have  made 
the  squaw's  face  quite  too  dark  even  for  an 
Indian,  and  her  child's  hair  looks  as  stiff  as 
bristles.  If  I  touch  the  warrior  again,  I  shall 
certainly  spoil  him. 
(24) 


THE   CADET'S   SIST  EH.  25 

MRS.  LKSMORE.  Your  sketch  is  not  so  bad, 
my  dear,  as  you  describe  it ;  but  I  think  you 
had  better  give  up  drawing  for  the  present. 
To-morrow  you  will  feel  more  composed. 

LAURA.  I  am  sorry,  for  I  had  set  my  mind 
on  finishing  this  group  of  Indians  before  Mar- 
cus came  home ;  particularly  as  it  is  from  an 
original  design  by  a  young  officer  that  he  is 
intimately  acquainted  with.  Marcus,  you 
know,  is  extremely  desirous  that  I  should  im- 
prove in  my  drawing,  and  I  hope  in  time  to  be 
able  to  sketch  from  nature  and  from  my  own 
imagination,  almost  as  beautifully  as  he  does. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  WeJl,  my  dear,  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  tell  you  that  you  do  improve 
rapidly.  Mr.  Mitford  considers  you  one  of  his 
best  pupils. 

LAURA.  And  Marcus  will  be  glad  to  find 
that  I  am  head  of  the  first  class  at  French 
school.  Now  if  I  could  only  have  taken  les- 
sons in  music?  what  pleasure  it  would  give  me 
to  play  to  Marcus  after  he  comes  home.  How- 
ever, as  he  is  accustomed  every  morning  and 
evening  to  hear  the  fine  band  at  West  Point, 
perhaps  mere  piano-playing  may  seem  to  him 
very  insipid.  ' 

3 


26  THE  CADET'S   SISTER. 

MRS.  LKSMORE.  My  dear,  you  must  not 
regret  that  you  cannot  be  instructed  in  music. 
I  do  not  think  you  have  any  decided  talent  for 
that  charming  science,  and  your  voice  is  not 
such  as  to  authorize  the  hope  that  you  would 
ever  sing  well. 

LATTRA.  Still,  dear  mother,  I  might  make 
up  in  application  for  what  is  wanting  in  natu- 
ral genius.  If  I  could  be  enabled  to  take  les- 
sons on  the  piano,  you  have  no  idea  how 
attentive  and  assiduous  my  instructor  would 
find  me.  I  would  willingly  practise  five  or  six 
hours  every  day,  and  I  would  take  such  pains 
and  be  so  unremitting  in  my  endeavours,  that 
I  think  I  should  at  length  acquire  as  much 
proficiency  as  the  generality  of  young  girls. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  There  is  no  accomplish- 
ment more  expensive  than  that  of  music.  There 
is  none  that  requires  more  time  and  closer 
attention,  and  there  is  none  that  is  sooner  for- 
gotten. To  play  even  tolerably,  is  frequently 
the  work  of  years  ;  and  to  play  well,  you  must 
have  constant  instruction  from  an  excellent  and 
consequently  an  expensive  teacher,  and  you 
must  practise  regularly  and  carefully  for  several 
hours  every  day.  Then,  after  all,  it  is  impossi- 


THE  CADET'S   SISTER.  27 

ble  to  be  a  good  musician  without  an  excellent 
ear,  considerable  taste,  and  a  large  share  of 
native  genius.  Also,  a  fine  voice  is  indispen- 
sable, for  ladies  that  play  are  generally  ex- 
pected to  sing.  There  are  many  other  con- 
siderations. Music  is  the  most  costly  of  all 
accomplishments.  In  the  first  place,  a  high 
price  must  be  given  for  a  good  instrument  ;  a 
good  teacher,  as  I  before  remarked,  always 
commands  a  large  compensation  ;  and  a  great 
deal  of  money  must  necessarily  be  expended  in 
buying  songs  and  pieces.  I  have  always  been 
of  opinion  that  persons  in  moderate  circum- 
stances should  not  allow  their  children  to  be 
instructed  in  music  unless  they  evince  an  ex- 
traordinary talent  for  it,  or  expect  eventually 
to  pursue  it  as  a  profession.  Think  yourself 
fortunate,  my  dear  Laura,  in  having  it  in  your 
power  to  learn  drawing,  dancing,  and  French  ; 
beside  all  the  usual  branches  of  a  good  English 
education. 

LAURA.  Well,  mother,  I  have  now  put 
away  all  my  drawing  apparatus.  Will  you 
give  me  some  sewing  to  pass  away  the  time 
till  Marcus  arrives  ? 


28  THE   CADET'S    SISTEE. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Yes,  you  may  hem  this 
frill. 

LAURA.  Some  one  rings  at  the  front  door. 
Perhaps  it  is  dear  Marcus,  (running  to  the 
tvindow.')  Oh  !  no.  It  is  that  tiresome  Mrs. 
Clapperton,  come  back  already  from  New 
York.  And  she  is  as  teasing  and  disagreeable 
as  she  is  tiresome.  She  never  visits  us  but  to 
say  something  that  is  mortifying  or  painful,  or 
to  ask  impertinent  questions. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  My  dear  Laura,  you  must 
not  allow  yourself  to  speak  so  freely  of  any 
acquaintance  of  the  family. 

LAURA.  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  call  her  an 
acquaintance  only.  But  I  might  have  been 
sure  you  never  classed  her  among  your  friends. 
Oh  !  how  different  she  is  from  dear  Mrs.  El- 
wood,  whose  visits  always  make  us  cheerful 
and  happy. 

[Mrs.  Clapperton  enters — very  expensively  dresl..~\ 

\ 
MRS.  CLAPPERTON.     My  dear  Mrs.  Lesmore, 

1  hope  you  are  well.  It  seems  an  age  since  I 
last  saw  you.  And  my  sweet  Laura  too — as 
industrious  as  ever,  I  suppose.  Well,  you  are 


THE   CADET'SSISTER.  29 

certainly  right.  There  is  no  knowing  what 
may  happen,  and  your  accomplishments  may 
one  day  be  turned  to  profitable  account.  It  is 
a  fine  thing  for  girls  to  be  able  to  get  their  own 
living. 

\_She  sits  down  in  a  chair  that  Laura  has  placed  for  her.~\ 

MRS.  LESMORE.  When  did  you  return  from 
New  York,  Mrs.  Clapperton  ? 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  I  got  home  last  evening 
about  sunset. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  I  suppose  you  found  the 
city  as  gay  as  usual. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Oh  !  quite  as  much  so — 
dear,  delightful  Broadway  was  always  so 
crowded,  that  we  found  it  difficult  to  get  along. 
That  is,  on  the  west  side,  for  it  is  not  the  fashion 
to  walk  on  the  other.  And  the  Battery  is 
thronged  every  evening. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Was  the  steamboat  very 
full  yesterday,  when  you  came  up  ? 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Yes,  very,  and  I  was 
glad  that  we  were  not  to  pass  the  night  on 
board.  Oh  !  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Lesmore,  that  on  the  day  we  went  down  to  the 
city  we  heard  a  great  deal  about  your  son  Mar- 
3* 


30  T  H  E     C  A  D  E  T  '  8     S  I  S  T  E  K. 

cus,  from  a  cadet  named  Wanslcy,  that  we 
took  on  board  at  West  Point,  and  whom  Mr. 
Clapperton  suspected  had  been  dismissed  for 
some  misdemeanor,  because  he  talked  so  unfa- 
vourably of  the  academy  and  the  professors  and 
officers.  You  know  that  successful  cadets 
generally  speak  highly  of  the  institution,  and 
of  all  who  are  connected  with  it. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Was  this  cadet  acquainted 
with  my  dear  Marcus? 

MKS.  CLAPPERTON.  Yes,  I  asked  him  ;  and 
he  said  that  he  knew  Marcus  Lesmore  perfectly 
well.  I  must  confess  that  he  told  me  some 
strange  things  about  him. 

LAURA.  I  am  sure  he  could  tell  you  nothing 
to  his  disadvantage. 

MRS.  LESMORK.  My  son,  I  know,  stands 
very  high  in  his  class. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  I  made  no  inquiries  on 
that  subject  ;  but  I  asked  young  Wansley  if 
Marcus  Lesmore  was  liked  in  the  corps ;  that 
is  if  he  was  popular  with  the  other  cadets. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  I  hope  the  answer  was  in 
the  affirmative. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Why — not  exactly — 
in  short,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lesmore,  I  am  sorry  to 


THE  CADET'S  SISTER.  81 

tell  you  that  your  son  does  not  seem  to  be  a 
favourite  with  his  companions. 

LAURA.     How  is  that  possible  ? 

MRS.  LESMORE.  I  am  indeed  amazed.  With 
his  kind  feelings  and  good  temper,  I  see  not 
how  he  can  be  otherwise  than  in  favour  with 
them. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Why,  you  know  that 
boys  seldom  set  much  value  on  money,  and 
that  they  usually  spend  it  freely  even  when 
they  have  but  little.  It  seems,  however,  that 
your  son  is  so  close  an  economist,  that,  to 
speak  the  plain  truth,  he  has  lost  the  regard 
of  all  his  companions.  None  are  now  on  terms 
of  intimacy  with  him,  and  he  has  got  the  nick- 
name of  <  young  Elwees.' 

MRS.  LESMORE.  You  astonish  and  distress 
me — if  this  is  indeed  true,  how  much  my  son 
must  have  changed  ! 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Every  body  is  liable  to 
change. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  It  cannot  be  true — it  is  in- 
credible. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Few  mothers  will  be- 
lieve any  thing  against  their  children. 

LAURA.     (With  tears  in  her  eyes.]    My  dear 


82  THE  CADET'S   SISTER. 

brother  to  be  nicknamed  Elwees,  after  that 
wretched  old  miser.  Why  does  not  Marcus 
knock  down  every  boy  that  calls  him  so  ? 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Oh !  of  course  they  take 
care  not  to  give  him  that  appellation  to  his 
face.  And  even  if  they  did,  people  are  not 
very  apt  to  resent  indignities  when  they  are 
conscious  of  deserving  them. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Mrs.  Clapperton,  you  both 
offend  and  afflict  me.  I  doubt  if  your  inform- 
ant was  able  to  support  his  allegation  by  any 
ihing  like  proof. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Oh  !  yes,  indeed — he 
went  into  particulars.  For  instance,  Mr.  Wans- 
ley  told  me  that  Marcus  Lesmore  is  as  saving 
as  possible,  even  in  his  most  trifling  expenses, 
and  that  he  acts  as  if  every  cent  was  to  him  an 
object  of  consequence.  He  is  particularly 
careful  of  his  clothes,  and  tries  his  utmost  to 
make  them  last  as  long  as  possible.  He  never 
sends  down  to  the  city  for  new  novels,  or  any 
other  books  of  amusement.  He  has  discon- 
tinued his  newspaper,  and  does  not  take  a 
single  magazine.  He  never  goes  to  the  shop 
where  they  sell  fruit  and  soda  water.  He  has 
with  his  own  hands  made  various  little  things 


TUB  CADET'S   SISTK  is.  83 

for  his  room,  rather  than  go  to  the  expense  of 
buying  them.  When  the  cadets  have  a  ball  he 
stays  away  because  he  will  not  be  one  of  the 
subscribers  to  it ;  and  for  the  same  reason  he 
is  never  seen  at  a  concert  or  other  entertain 
ment.  In  short,  he  declines  subscribing  to  any 
thing,  and  seems  resolutely  bent  on  saving  as 
much  money  as  possible.  He  has  been  going 
on  in  this  penurious  way  for  the  last  two  years, 
therefore  it  is  strange  you  should  not  have 
heard  something  of  it  before  this  time.  Oh  ! 
there  is  another  thing  I  must  not  forget.  During 
the  summer  recess  he  never,  like  the  other 
cadets,  asks  permission  to  visit  the  city,  but  he 
remains  in  camp  all  the  time. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Oh  !  no,  not  quite  all  the 
time — he  always  comes  up  to  pass  a  few  days 
with  his  mother  and  sister. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  But  he  goes  no  where 
else. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  It  is  true  that  his  anxiety 
to  make  the  most  of  his  time,  while  his  educa- 
tion is  yet  unfinished,  and  his  desire  to  improve 
in  tactics  (the  branch  which  is  particularly 
practised  during  encampment),  has  hitherto 


34  THE   CADET'S   SISTER. 

prevented  him  from  paying  us  long  visits.  But 
this  being  his  last  year,  he  is  now  exempt  from 
military  duty  and  he  can  remain  with  us 
several  weeks,  and  next  summer,  he  will  be 
commissioned.  Still,  I  am  surprised  and 
shocked  at  what  you  tell  me.  My  son's  dis- 
position was  always  generous  and  liberal  ; 
exactly  like  his  father's. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Excuse  me,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Lesmore,  but  as  Marcus  knows  .that  his 
father's  liberality  injured  the  circumstances  of 
the  family,  perhaps  he  thinks  it  better  to  keep 
on  the  safe  side,  and  accustom  himself  thus 
early  to  habits  of  strict  economy.  I  .admire  his 
prudence,  but  I  am  sorry  he  should  go  sucli 
lengths  as  to  be  accounted  mean. 

LAURA.  Oh  !  but  indeed,  a  mean  boy  is 
such  an  unnatural  character.  I  am  certain  my 
dear  Marcus  cannot  deserve  it. 

MRS;  CLAPPERTON.  Well,  I  can  assure  you 
that  from  what  Mr.  Wansley  said,  Marcus  Les- 
more  has  actually  obtained  that  character,  and 
is  believed  by  the  whole  corps  of  cadets  to  de- 
serve it.  1  am  very  sorry,  for  in  the  opinion 
of  boys  there  is  nothing  more  contemptible  than 


T  H  E     C  A  1)  E  T  '  S     8  I  S  T  E  R.  35 

a,  young  miser.  And  I  must  own  that  I  have 
never  heard  of  his  sending  any  little  presents 
to  his  mother  and  sister. 

MRS.  LKSMORK.  Mrs.  Clapperton,  say  no- 
thing on  that  subject.  He  undoubtedly  finds 
his  pay  little  enough  for  his  unavoidable  ex- 
penses. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  How  is  it,  then,  that  as 
young  Wansley  assured  me  the  cadets  can 
generally  defray  all  their  f  unavoidable  ex- 
penses,' with  their  allowance  of  twenty-eight 
dollars  a  month,  and  have  still  something  left 
for  other  purposes  ?  So  close  as  he  is,  I  really 
think  Marcus  must  by  this  timo  have  saved  a 
little  fortune.  He  must  have  money  in  the 
bank,  or  perhaps  he  intends  buying  a  house. 
Well,  it  is  very  prudent,  though  certainly  not 
very  common,  for  a  boy  of  eighteen  to.  think  of 
providing  for  his  old  age. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  You  must  excuse  me,  Mrs. 
Clapperton,  but  I  cannot  bear  any  jesting  at 
the  expense  of  my  son. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Well,  do  not  be  angry, 
but  I  have  not  told  you  the  half  that  t  heard 
about  him.  Wansley  related  some  of  the  most 
curious  anecdotes. 


36  THE   CADET'S   SISTER. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  What  you  have  already 
told  has  given  me  so  much  pain,  that  I  would 
rather  hear  no  more. 

MRS.  CLAPPERTON.  Your  Marcus  is  cer- 
tainly very  different  from  my  William,  whose 
money  flies  as  if  it  was  dust.  He  is  never 
satisfied  except  when  he  is  down  at  New 
York  ;  and  when  there,  he  goes  every  night  to 
the  theatre,  and  frequently  to  a  ball  after  the 
play  is  over.  He  is  continually  hiring  horses 
and  gigs,  and  going  on  water-parties.  And  he 
never  spends  less  than  a  dollar  a  day  at  the 
confectioner's  or  oyster-houses.  Then,  since 
his  trip  to  Philadelphia,  he  will  not  wear  even 
a  light  summer-jacket,  unless  it  is  made  at 
Watson's.  But  I  like  to  see  a  boy  of  spirit, 
and  I  make  his  father  indulge  him  in  every 
thing  he  wants.  However,  I  must  now  take 
my  leave,  for  I  expect  in  the  next  boat  five 
new  dresses,  which  were  not  quite  finished 
before  I  left  the  city  ;  and  I  must  despatch  John 
to  the  wharf  to  be  ready  to  get  the  boxes.  If 
you  call  to-morrow  morning  I  will  show  them 
to  you.  They  are  all  in  the  very  first  style. 
So  good  b'ye. 


THE   CADET'S   s  i  s  T  K  u.  37 

MRS.  LESMORK.  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Clap 
perton. 

[Laura  accompanies  Mrs.  Clappcrton  to  the  door,  ana 
then  returns.] 

LAURA.  (Bursting  into  tears.')  Oh  !  my 
aear  mother ! 

MRS.  LESMORE.  My  beloved  girl,  I  am  as 
much  grieved  and  mortified  as  you  can  be,  at 
what  Mrs.  Ciapperton  has  been  telling  us. 

LAURA.     I  am  sure  it  cannot  be  true. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  There  is  undoubtedly  some 
exaggeration,  both  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Clapper- 
ton  and  that  of  the  cadet  who  was  her  inform- 
ant. But  the  charge  is  of  so  unusual  a  nature 
that  I  fear  it  must  have  some  foundation,  other- 
wise no  one  would  dare  to  advance  it. 

LAURA.  I  believe  it  to  be  mere  slander. 
But  Marcus  is  so  sensible  and  so  amiable,  that 
it  is  surprising  he  should  have  a  single  enemy. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Whatever  may  be  the  good 
qualities  of  a  young  man,  he  will  never  be 
popular  with  his  associates  if  they  have  reason 
to  suspect  him  of  any  thing  that  borders  on 
parsimony.  In  the  eyes  of  youth  meanness  is 
an  unpardonable  fault. 


38  THE   CARET'S   SISTER. 

LAURA.  But  how  he  must  have  changed  ! 
When  he  was  a  boy  at  home,  his  money  was 
always  laid  out  in  some  way  or  other  as  soon 
as  it  was  given  to  him.  And  he  was  so  gene- 
rous to  his  friends  and  to  me,  and  so  willing  to 
share  whatever  he  had. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  It  is  true,  as  Mrs.  Clapper- 
ton  rudely  and  ill-naturedly  reminded  us,  that 
Marcus  has  never  sent  even  the  most  trifling 
present  to  you  or  to  me. 

LAURA.  Oh-!  dearest  mother,  never  allude 
to  that  again  I  dare  say  he  finds  his  pay 
qnite  little  enough. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  But  if  other  cadets  can  live 
on  their  pay,  and  still  allow  themselves  many 
indulgences — Oh  !  Laura,  Laura,  I  fear  indeed, 
that  all  is  not  right. 

LAURA.  Oh  !  that  Marcus  would  arrive,  and 
then  we  might  immediate!}7  ascertain  the  truth. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  It  is  torture  to  think  ill  of 
him  even  for  a  few  moments. 

LAURA.  I  hear  a  wheelbarrow  stop  at  the 
door  ;  it  must  be  Marcus'  baggage — (she  runs 
to  the  window)  ah  !  here  he  is  t 

MRS.  LESMORE.     My  dear  Marcus  ! 


TH  ]•:    CADET'S   SISTEK. 

[They  hasten  to  the  front  door,  and  then  return  to  the 
parlour  with  Marcus,  who  throu-s  his  cap  on  the  table, 
and  seats  himself  on  the  sofa  between  his  mother  and  sister.  ] 

MARCUS.  Well,  my  dear  mother,  here  I  am 
once  more.  We  had  every  thing  to  make  our 
passage  from  West  Point  delightful  ;  but  still  it 
seemed  to  me  a  very  long  one — I  was  so  impa- 
tient to  arrive  at  my  beloved  home. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Ho\v  much  you  have 
grown !  You  look  half  a  head  taller  than 
when  we  last  saw  you. 

LAURA.  And  how  much  handsornor  ymi  arc 
now,  than  before  you  went  to  West  Point. 

MARCUS,  (smiling'}     You  must  allow  some- 
thing   for   my  uniform — la  pause)    But,  my 
dear  mother,  you  look  disturbed  and  uneasy 
and  Laura  has  certainly  been  in  tears.     What 
has  happened  ? — tell  me  at  once. 

LAURA.  Did  you  never  hear  of  any  one 
crying  with  joy  ? 

MARCUS.  But  joy  is  not  the  cause  of  the 
tears  that  are  now  filling  your  eyes.  I  have 
more  penetration  than  to  believe  that  the  only 
emotion  you  feel  at  this  moment  is  pleasure  on 
seeing  mo  again,  after  a  long  separation.  There 
is  something  else — some  thing  has  happened— 


40  T  II  E    C  A  1)  E  T  '  S     S  I  8  T  E  11. 

some  recent  cause  of  affliction — some  new  mis- 
fortune. 

MRS.  LESMORE.     Oh  !  no — no — 

MARCUS.  Dearest  mother,  tell  me  the  whole 
— neither  you  nor  Laura  receive  me  as  you 
did  when  I  came  home  last  summer.  Some- 
thing, I  am  sure,  is  wrong. 

MRS.  LESMORE.     Marcus — I  will  tell  you 

LAURA,  (in  a  low  voice  to  Mrs.  Lesmore\ 
Dear  mother,  do  not  say  any  thing  about  the 
cadets  calling  him  e  young  Elwees.' 

MRS.  LESMORK.  Mrs.  Clapperton  has  just 
been  here,  having  recently  returned  from  New 
York. 

MARCUS.  I  arn  glad  her  visit  to  you  was 
over  before  my  arrival.  I  think  her  a  very 
foolish,  impertinent  woman. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  When  she  was  going  down 
the  river,  a  cadet  ('probably  one  that  had  just 
been  dismissed)  came  on  board  at  West  Point. 
Mrs.  Clapperton  got  into  conversation  with 
him,  and  asked  some  questions  concerning  you. 
MARCUS.  May  I  know  what  he  said  of  me  ? 

MRS.  LESMORE.*  He  said  that — how  can  I 
tell  you — I  know  not  in  what  manner  to  begin. 

LAURA.     Oh  !  dear  mother,  tell  it  not  at  all— 


T  11E     CADET'S     318  TEK.  41 

at  least  not  till  to-morrow.  Let  us  try  to  be  as 
happy  as  we  can  this  first  evening  of  Marcus's 
return 

MARCUS.  My  curiosity  is  now  so  highly 
excited  that  I  must  entreat,  and  were  I  not 
addressing  my  mother,  I  would  say,  I  must 
insist  on  knowing. 

'  MRS.  LESMORE.  Well,  then,  Marcus  I  have 
been  surprised  and  mortified  to  hear  that  you 
are  accused  by  your  companions  of  an  extraor- 
dinary disposition  to— to— what  shall  I  call  it  ? 
LAURA.  To  economize  rather  strictly.  Dear 
mother,  you  know  that  economy  is  a  virtue. 

[Marcus  rises,  and  traverses  the  room  in  much  emotion.'} 

MRS.  LESMORE.  In  plain  terms — that  you 
are  more  saving  of  your  money  than  is  usual, 
or  indeed  becoming  in  a  youth  of  your  age. 
That  you  carefully  avoid  every  expense  that  is 
not  absolutely  necessary.  That  you  join  in  no 
amusement  which  is  likely  to  cost  you  any 
thing,  and  that  you  take  the  utmost  pains  to 
live  on  as  little  as  possible. 

MARCUS.      It  is  all  true. 

LAURA.     True  ! — Oh,  Marcus  ! 

MRS.  LESMORE.     Can  it  indeed  be  true,  that 
4* 


42  THE  CADET'S   SISTER. 

you  hnve  carried  your  economy  so  far  that  it  is 
remarked  and  commented  upon  by  all  the 
cadets,  and  that  some  of  them  look  coldly  on 
you,  while  others  ridicule  you  ? 

MARCUS. — I  know  they  do — and  they  have 
nicknamed  me  <  young  Ehvees.' 

LAURA.     Oh  !  Marcus  !     Why  is  all  this  ? 

MARCUS.  Have  you  not  always  told  me, 
dear  mother,  that  every  one  should  endeavour 
to  live  within  his  income — is  it  then  right  that 
I  should  expend  the  whole  of  mine  ? 

MRS.  LESMORE.  I  have  always  supposed 
that  your  pay  is  no  more  than  sufficient  for  the 
expenses  incident  to  your  situation. 

MARCUS.  Excuse,  me,  dear  mother,  it  is 
more  than  sufficient. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  But  not  if  you  live  like 
other  cadets.  I  am  extremely  sorry  that  this 
singular  and  strict  economy  should  have  made 
you  unpopular  with  your  comrades  ;  but  a 
young  man  that  is  suspected  of  meanness 
nev.e.r  has  many  friends. 

MARCUS.  Have  you  ever  heard  any  thing 
else  against  me  ?  Has  any  one  told  you  that  I 
have  neglected  my  studies,  or  infringed  on  the 
rules  of  the  institution ;  that  I  have  on  any 


T  II  E    CADET'S     SISTER.  43 

occasion  evinced  a  refractory  or  insubordinate 
spirit ;  or  that  I  have  ever  been  guilty  of  any 
thing  dishonourable  or  immoral  ? 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Oh  !  no,  no — all  that  we 
have  heard,  all  that  \ve  know,  convinces  us  of 
the  contrary. 

MARCUS.  Then,  as,  according  to  the  old 
aphorism,  <  every  one  has  his  fault,'  let  me  beg 
a  little  indulgence  for  mine. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  But,  Marcus,  parsimony, 
or  meanness,  if  I  must  speak  plainly,  is  a  fault 
so  unusual,  so  extraordinary  in  a  very  young 
person,  that  I  own  it  both  surprises  and  grieves 
me  to  hear  it  attributed  to  you. 

LAVRA.  Dear  brother,  only  just  tell  us  why 
you  are  so  saving  of  your  clothes,  and  why  you 
avoid  partaking  of  the  few  amusements  that  are 
within  your  reach  ;  and  above  all,  why  you 
have  discontinued  your  newspaper  ? 

MARCUS.  As  to  my  clothes,  no  one  can  say 
that  I  ever  make  a  shabby  or  slovenly  appear- 
ance. 

LAURA.     You  certainly  look  very  nicely  now. 

MARCUS.  As  to  amusements,  they  are  always 
matters  of  taste.  My  companions  amuse  them- 
selves in  their  way,  and  I  in  mine. 


44  THE   CADET'S   SISTEK. 

LAURA.  But  we  have  heard  that  you  never 
buy  any  books — you  that  were  always  so  fond 
of  reading ! 

MARCUS.  I  have  not  yet  read  all  the  books 
in  the  public  library  belonging  to  the  academy. 

LAURA.  But  books  of  amusement  dear 
Marcus. 

MARCUS.  I  shall  have  time  enough  after  I 
am  commissioned  to  read  books  of  that  descrip- 
tion. At  present  it  is  my  duty  to  restrict  rny- 
self  to  such  works  as  will  be  useful  to  me  in  my 
profession,  and  with  these  I  can  amply  supply 
myself  from  the  library. 

LAURA  All  this  is  very  right  and  proper, 
Marcus,  but  still  it  is  not  like  a  boy. 

MRS.  LESMORK.  Marcus,  there  is  some  mys- 
tery connected  with  this  subject.  I  know  that 
your  natural  disposition  is  generous  and  liberal, 
and  that  your  perseverance  in  this  system  of 
rigid  economy  must  have  cost  you  many  pain- 
ful sacrifices.  There  must  be  some  powerful 
motive,  and  your  family  ought  to  know  it.  Tell 
us,  then,  dear  Marcus. 

\_Ile  remains  silent.~\ 
LAURA.     Oh  !  Marcus,  will   you  not  speak 


T  II  E     C  A  1)  E  T  '  S     9  I  9  T  K  R.  46 

when   your   sister    your   only  sister   entreats 
you  ? 

MRS.  LESMORE.  Or  must  you  be  told  that 
your  mother  commands  you  ? 

[Marcus  bows  to  his  mother,  casts  down  his  eyet,  and 
then  throws  his  arms  round  Laura's  neck.~\ 

LAURA.  Dear  Marcus,  why  have  you  so 
long  been  acting  unlike  yourself?  What  is 
the  cause  ? 

MARCUS,  (deeply  affected] — You,  Laura, 
you  are  the  cause. 

LAURA.     I — Oh  !  explain  yourself. 

MARCUS,  flaking  a  hand  of  each) — Mother 
— sister — what  shall  I  say  r — You  know  that 
my  father  left  you  in  circumstances  far  from, 
affluent.  Fortunately  he  had  yielded  to  my 
earnest  desire,  and  permitted  me  to  prepare 
myself  for  a  military  life.  I  had  often,  after 
you  became  a  widow,  heard  you  regret  your 
inability  to  afford  my  sister  such  an  education 
as  she  would  have  had  if  my  father  still  lived. 
I,  in  the  mean  time,  was  enjoying  the  benefit 
of  an  excellent  course  of  instruction  at  the  ex- 
pense of  my  country  ;  and  when  I  thought  of 
my  dear  Laura,  I  often  wished  that  she  was  a 


4&  THE  CADET'S  SISTER. 

boy,  and  could  participate  in  the  same  advan- 
tages. But  then  again,  I  consoled  myself  by 
reflecting  on  her  happiness  in  being  always 
with  her  mother,  and  on  the  mutual  comfort 
and  pleasure  you  both  derived  from  being 
always  together.  Knowing  that  the  narrow- 
ness of  your  income  would  not  permit  either  of 
you  to  mix  much  in  society,  and  that  you  live 
in  comparative  retirement,  I  anticipated  the 
satisfaction  it  would  give  you  both  if  Laura 
could  be  enabled  to  cultivate  the  talents  that 
Heaven  has  bestowed  on  her.  And  when 
impressed  with  this  idea,  after  the  thought  had 
once  struck  me — how  shall  I  go  en  ? — in  short, 
I  determined  to  live  as  economically  as  possible 
myself,  in  the  hope  of  being  able,  at  the  end  of 
the  year,  to  save  enough  to  meet  the  expenses 
of  my  sister's  education. 

LAURA,  (in  tears'} — Dear,  dear  Marcus. 

MARCUS.  I  tried  the  experiment,  and  I  found 
it  practicable  ;  but  I  did  not  wish  my  mother 
and  sister  to  know  it,  lest  they  should  refuse  to 
accept  the  fruits  of  my  savings.  Therefore,  I 
always  contrived  to  send  the  money  down  to 
New  York,  that  the  letter  which  enclosed  it 
might  not  have  the  West  Point  post  mark.  I 


THE  CADET'S   SISTKB.  47 

wrote  in  a  disguised  hand  a  few  lines  implying 
that  this  money  \vas  the  gift  of  an  unknown 
frieri •!  of  the  late  ColoneJ  Lesmore,  and  that  it 
was  designed  to  assist  in  the  education  of  his 
daughter.  All  is  now  explained. 

MRS.  LESMORE.     (embracing  him} — My  be- 
loved son  ! 

LAURA     (pressing  his  hand  to  her  heart] — 
My  darling  brother. 

MRS.  LESMORE.  How  could  1  for  a  moment 
suppose  that  my  dear  Marcus  might  be  unable 
to  justify  himself,  however  appearances  and 
reports  were  against  him.  And  now,  my  child, 
I  have  some  fxcellent  news  for  you,  which  I 
heard  but  yesterday,  and  which  I  have  not 'yet* 
disclosed  to  Laura,  as  I  wished  to  reserve  it  as 
an  addition  to  our  happiness  on  the  evening  of 
your  arrival  at  home.  Mr.  Adamson,  by  whose 
bankruptcy  your  father  was  ruined,  has  just 
returned  from  the  West  Indies,  where  he  has 
made  a  fortune  by  some  lucky  speculations. 
He  is  now  able  to  pay  all  his  creditors,  and, 
being  a  very  conscientious  man,  lie  is  deter- 
mined to  do  it  immediately.  The  sum  that  will 
fall  to  our  share  is  large  enough  to  enable  us  in 
future  to  dispense  with  any  further  assistance 


48  THE   CADET'S   SISTE  it. 

from  the  kindness  of  dear  Marcus.  We  shah 
now  have  an  income  that  will  be  amply 
sufficient. 

LAURA.     Delightful  news ! 

MRS.  LESMORE.  And  now,  my  dear  Marcus, 
you  must  promise  me  that  on  your  return  to 
West  Point  you  will  be  again  yourself,  and 
cease  to  practise  that  rigid  economy  which, 
while  it  was  so  advantageous  to  your  sister, 
must  have  subjected  you  to  perpetual  incon- 
veniences and  annoyances. 

MARCUS.  Dear  mother,  I  will  do  as  you 
wish  me  ;  and  now  that  I  have  no  longer  the 
same  motive  for  self-denial,  I«confess  that  I 
shall  resume  my  former,  and  let  me  add,  my 
natural  habits,  with  pleasure.  My  comrades 
shall  again  see  me  in  my  own  character.  But 
I  can  assure  you  that  my  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  of  being  able  to  benefit  my  dear  Laura, 
amply  compensated  for  any  pain  or  inconven- 
ience that  I  endured  in  consequence. 

LATJRA.  How  could  you  persevere  so  long 
»vhen  the  cadets  ridiculed  you,  and  called  you 
a  young  miser  ? 

MARCUS.  I  bore  the  opprobrium  patiently, 
because  I  knew  it  to  be  unmerited,  It  is  much 


THK   CADET'S   SISTER.  49 

easier  to  suffer  under  an  erroneous  imputation, 
than  to  endure  the  shame  and  self-reproach  of 
a  real  fault, 

MRS.  LESMORE.  You  have  chosen,  my  dear 
Marcus,  the  profession  of  arms,  and  should  the 
peace  of  our  country  be  again  invaded,  you 
must,  in  the  hour  of  danger,  take  your  chance 
for  life  or  death  ;  and  as  personal  intrepidity  is 
one  of  the  attributes  of  your  sex,  I  trust  that 
when  the  hour  comes  you  will  not  swerve  from 
your  duty.  But  how  highly  to  be  prized  is 
that  moral  courage  \vhich,  in  a  good  cause,  can 
submit  without  shrinking  to  daily  and  hourly 
privations,  and  •ndure  with  patience  the  pain- 
ful suspicion  of  a  fault  most  opposite  to  the 
truth. 

There  are  many  who,  with  unshaken  firm- 
ness, can  '  see  the  front  of  battle  lour,'  but  the 
energy  of  mind  is  far  more  rare  that  can  steadily 
submit  to  a  long  course  of  self-denial,  to  unjust 
animadversions,  and  to  unmerited  ridicule,  and 
find  sufficient  consolation  in  the  silent  and 
secret  exercise  of  the  best  feelings  of  generosity 
and  affection. 

5 


SUSANNA      MEKEHITH; 

OR, 

THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL. 


SUSANNA  MEREDITH  was  the  orphan  niece  of 
Mrs.  Weatherwax,  an  elderly*  lady  who  was 
( preceptress'  of  a  school  at  a  large  and  flourish- 
ing village  in  one  of  the  middle  sections  of  the 
Union.  The  aunt  of  our  young  heroine  was 
educating  her  with  a  view  to  her  becoming  an 
assistant  in  the  seminary  ;  and,  indeed,  pool 
Susanna  had  already  been  inducted  into  the 
most  laborious  duties  of  that  office,  though  her 
age  was  not  yet  fourteen. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax's  establishment  bore  any  resemblance  to 
that  English  village  school,  whose  sign  has 


SUSANNA      M  E  U  E  D  I  T  II.  61 

been  so  facetiously  described  as  containing 
these  words, { Children  taught  reading,  writing, 
and  grammar,  for  sixpence  a  week.  Thorn  as 
learns  manners  pays  eightpence.'  On  the 
contrary,  hers  \vas  a  lyceum  of  high  pretence, 
and  very  select  ;  none  being  admitted  whose 
parents  were  not  likely  to  pay  their  quarter 
bills. 

Mrs.  Weatherwax  was  not  one  of  those 
teachers  who  strew  the  path  of  learning  with 
flowers.  With  her,  as  with  most  hard,  dull, 
heavy-minded  people,  the  letter  was  always 
paramount  to  the  spirit.  Provided  that  her 
pupils  could  repeat  the  exact  words  of  their 
lessons,  it  was  to  her  a  matter  of  indifference 
whether  they  understood  a  single  one  of  those 
words  or  not ;  and,  in  fact,  as  her  own  compre- 
hension was  not  very  extensive,  it  was  by  no 
means  surprising  that  the  governess  should 
carefully  avoid  the  dangerous  ground  of  expla- 
nation. 

Their  chief  class-book  was  Murray's  English 
Reader,  where  the  little  girls  were  expected  to 
be  interested,  and  edified  by  dialogues  between 
Locke  and  Bayle,  orations  of  Cicero,  and  parlia- 
mentary speeches  of  Lord  Mansfield.  And 


62  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OR 

twice  a  week,  hy  way  of  variety,  they  were 
indulged  with  a  few  pages  of  Young's  Night 
Thoughts.  Every  Saturday  they  were  required 
to  manufacture  certain  articles  called  composi- 
tion, which  were  moral  and  sentimental  letters 
on  Beneficence,  Gratitude,  Modesty,  Friend- 
ship, &c.  Mrs.  Weatherwax  also  gave  them 
lessons  in  something  she  denominated  French, 
in  which  most  of  the  words  were  pronounced 
in  English,  or  rather  as  if  the  letters  that  com- 
posed them  retained  tht  English  pronunciation, 
calling  for  instance,  the  three  summer  months, 
Jewin,  Juilet,  and  Jlught.* 

They  wrote,  or  rather  scratched  their  copies 
with  metallic  pens,  to  save  the  trouble  of  mend- 
ing, and  they  learned  geography  {  with  the  use 
of  the  globes,'  though  all  that  was  ever  done 
with  the  globes  was  to  twirl  them.  And  now 
and  then  a  young  lady  of  peculiar  genius 
accomplished,  in  the  course  of  three  months,  a 
stool-cover  or  urn-stand,  worked  on  canvass, 
and  representing  in  caricature  a  cat,  a  dog,  or 
a  flower-basket. 

Susanna  Meredith  had  much  native  talent, 

Juin,  Juillet,  and  Aout. 


THE     VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  68 

united  with  the  most  indefatigable  application, 
and  considering  how  little  real  benefit  she  de- 
rived from  the  tutorage  of  her  aunt,  her  pro- 
gress in  everything  she  attempted  was  surpris- 
ing. Her  unpretending  good  sense,  and  her 
mild  and  obliging  manners,  tinctured  with  a 
touch  of  melancholy,  the  consequence  of  feeling 
deeply  the  loss  of  her  parents,  (both  of  whom 
had  died  about  the  same  time,)  excited  the 
esteem  and  affection  of  her  young  companions, 
whose  indignation  was  often  roused  by  the 
manner  in  which  poor  Susanna  was  treated  by 
her  aunt.  She  swept  and  dusted  the  school- 
room, washed  the  desks,  took  care  of  the  books, 
fixed  the  sewing,  inspected  the  sums,  and 
taught  the  little  ones  to  read  ;  and  she  never, 
in  any  one  instance,  succeeded  in  pleasing  Mrs. 
Weatherwax. 

Her  services  were  compensated  by  being 
allowed  to  wear  her  aunt's  left-off  clothes,  (after 
she  had  altered  them  between  school  hours  so 
as  to  fit  herself,)  and  by  having  permission  to 
sit  at  table  with  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  and  drink 
the  grounds  of  the  coffee  in  the  morning,  or  the 
drainings  of  the  well-watered  tea-pot  in  the 
evening  ;  and  to  eat  at  dinner  the  skinny,  bony, 
5* 


54  SUSANNA    MEKEDITIJ,     OK 

or  gristly  parts  of  the  meat,  or  the  necks  and 
backs  of  the  poultry.  Not  that  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax  did  not  provide  amply  for  herself,  but, 
though  she  said  it  was  indispensably  necessary 
for  her  to  sustain  her  strength  by  plenty  of 
good  food,  yet  the  same  necessity  did  not  exist 
with  a  young  girl  like  Susanna,  whom  eating 
heartily  would  incapacitate  for  study.  The  old 
lady's  studies  being  over,  she  saw  no  motive 
for  abstemiousness  on  her  own  part. 

It  was  on  a  warm  afternoon  in  the  early  part 
of  July,  that  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  having  dined 
even  more  plentifully  than  usual,  felt  herself 
much  inclined  to  drowsiness,  and  resorted  to 
her  ordinary  mode  of  keeping  herself  awake  by 
exercising  a  strict  watch  on  her  pupils  and 
scolding  and  punishing  them  accordingly.  Like 
a  peevish  child,  Mrs.  Weatherwax  was  always 
cross  when  she  was  sleepy.  The  girls,  in 
whispers,  expressed  more  than  ever  their  long- 
ings for  the  summer  vacation  ;  after  which,  it 
was  understood  that  Mrs.  Weatherwax  was  to 
retire  on  her  fortune ;  she  having  made  enough 
to  enable  her  to  give  up  her  school  to  a  lady 
from  New  England,  who  had  engaged  to  retain 
Susanna  Meredith  as  an  assistant,  and  to  pay 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  55 

her  a  small  salary,  which  her  aunt  was  to 
receive  till  she  was  of  age. 

About  a  dozen  of  her  pupils  were  standing 
up  in  a  row  before  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  reading 
aloud  and  loudly  from  the  Night  Thoughts,  and 
in  that  monotonous  tone  which  children  always 
fall  into  when  they  have  no  comprehension  of 
the  subject.  Each  read  a  paragraph,  and 
there  was  much  miscalling  of  words,  much 
false  emphasis,  and  much  neglect  of  the  proper 
stops.  But  of  these  errors  the  governess  was 
only  at  any  time  capable  of  distinguishing  the 
first,  and  as  she  grew  more  sleepy,  her  correc- 
tions of  pronunciation  became  less  frequent, 
and  at  last  they  ceased  altogether.  In  vain  did 
Maria  Wilson  call  ( the  opaque  of  nature,'  the 
O.  P.  Q.  of  nature,  and  in  vain  were  <  futuri- 
ties' denominated  fruiterers,  and  ( hostilities' 
termed  hostlers.  No  word  of  reproof  was  now 
heard. 

The  girls  looked  from  their  books  at  Mrs.. 
Weatherwax,  and  then  at  each  other,  biting 
their  lips  to  suppress  their  laughter,  for  her 
eye-lids,  though  drooping,  were  not  yet  quite 
closed.  Gradually,  her  neck  seemed  to  lose 
something  of  its  usual  stiffness,  and  to  incline 


56  SUS  ANN  A     M  E  H  K  1)  I  T  11,     O  R 

towards  her  shoulder;  her  head  slowly  went 
to  one  side ;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  her  tightly 
shut  eyes,  her  audible  breathing,  and  her  book 
dropping  from  her  hand  and  falling  on  the  floor 
without  waking  her,  gave  positive  assurance 
that  the  governess  had  really  and  truly  fallen 
fast  asleep  in  her  arm-chair? 

As  this  fact  became  apparent,  the  faces  of 
her  pupils  brightened,  and  two  of  the  most 
courageous  were  deputed  by  the  others  to 
approach  close  to  her,  and  to  examine  if  she 
absolutely  was  in  a  profound  slumber.  Their 
report  was  favourable  ;  and  in  a  moment  all 
restraint  tvas  thrown  aside,  and  a  scene  of  joy- 
ous tumult  ensued,  in  which  great  risks  were 
run  of  wakening  the  sleeper.  At  first  they 
moved  on  tiptoe,  spoke  in  whispers,  and 
smothered  their  laughter ;  but,  grown  bolder 
by  practice,  they  at  length  ventured  fcn  such 
daring  exploits,  that  the  continuation  of  their 
governess's  nap  seemed  almost  miraculous. 

*Some  of  them  immediately  fell  to  rummag- 
ing the  desk  that  always  sat  On  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax's  table,  and  from  it  they  joyfully  re-pos- 

*  This  scene  -was  suggested  by  Richter's  celebrated 
picture  of  '  The  Girls'  School.' 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  67 

sessed  themselves  of  some    of  their  forfeited 
playthings. 

Lucy  Phillips  took  a  snuff  box  from  the  old 
lady's  pocket,  and  threw  snuff  into  the  faces  of 
two  other  girls,  who  sneezed  so  loudly  in  con 
sequence,  that  Mrs.  Weatherwax  was  observed 
to  start  in  her  sleep. 

Ellen  Welbrook  hastened  to  the  release  of 
her  younger  sister  Mary,  who  had  been  sen- 
tenced to  stand  for  an  hour  on  a  high  stool, 
with  a  fool's  cap  on  her  head,  as  a  punishment 
for  saying  <  Pallas'  instead  of  ( Minerva,'  as 
she  recited  her  lesson  of  mythology  ;  and  who, 
now  that  she  could  do  so  with  impunity,  scowled 
awfully  at  the  slumbering  governess,  and  shook 
her  little  fist  in  defiance. 

Fanny  Mills,  the  beauty  of  the  school,  pinned 
up  a  small  silk  shawl  into  a  turban,  and  placing 
in  it  a  peacock's  feather,  taken  from  behind  the 
top  of  the  looking  glass,  she  practised  attitudes, 
and  surveyed  herself  in  the  mirror  with  much 
complacency. 

Catherine  Ramsay  diverted  herself  and  her 
companions  by  spreading  out  her  frock  as  wide 
as  it  would  extend,  and  making  ridiculous  mock 
curtcsies  to  her  sleeping  governess. 


68  8  O  8  A  N  K  A     SI  i:  11  I.  1,  I  T  i~T,     >7  I. 

Lydia  Linnel,  a  little  girl  whose  chief  delight 
was  in  cutting  paper,  tore  cut  several  blank 
leaves  from  her  copy  book  seized  a  pair  of 
scissors,  and  strewed  the  floor  with  mimic  dolls 
and  houses. 

And  Isabella  Smithson  and  Margaret  Wells 
coldly  walked  out  at  the  front  door  to  go  and 
buy  cakes. 

There  was  also  much  unmeaning  scampering, 
prancing,  scrambling,  and  giggling,  without  any 
definite  object ;  and  work-boxes,  baskets,  chairs, 
and  stools,  were  overturned  in  the  confusion. 

And  what  did  Susanna  Meredith  during  this 
saturnalia?  Concerned  at  the  disrespect  so 
unanimously  evinced  towards  her  aunt,  and 
still  more  concerned  at  knowing  that  the  old 
lady's  unpopularity  was  too  well  deserved, 
Susanna  remained  steadily  at  her  desk,  en- 
gaged at  her  writing  piece,  and  unwilling  to 
raise  her  eyes,  or  to  see  what  was  going  on  ; 
but  still  not  surprised  that  the  children  should 
thus  testify  their  joy  at  this  short  and  unex- 
pected relief  from  the  iron  rule  of  Mrs.  Wea- 
ther wax. 

Two  of  the  elder  girls  approached  her — 
'  Come,  Susanna,'  said  Anne  Clarkson,  l  lay 


THB     VILLAGE     SCUOOL.  59 

aside  your  pen,  and  join  us  in  our  fun  while 
we  have  an  opportunity.  I  know  in  your 
heart  you  would  Jike  to  do  so.' 

'Excuse  me,'  replied  Susanna,  <I  am  unwil- 
ling to  do  any  thing  while  my  aunt  is  asleep, 
that  1  would  not  attempt  if  she  were  awake.' 

I  Now  you  are  quite  too  good ,'  said  Martha 
Stevens,  '  do  not  try  to  make  us  believe  that 
you  feel  any  great  respect  for  such  an  aunt  as 
this.' 

I 1  rather    think,'  said    Catharine   Ramsay, 
coming    up   at   the    moment,    '  that   prudence 
keeps   Susanna  out  of  the   scrape,  lest  Dami* 
Weathenvax   should   wake    up   suddenly  and 
catch  her.      But   only    look   tit    what   I    have 
found    in  the   old   damsel's  desk.     You   know 
my  mother  is  going  to  have  a  tea   party  to- 
morrow evening  for  those  western  people  that 
arrived  yesterday,  and  among  the  rest  she  has 
invited  Wax}-.     And  so  our  accomplished  pre- 
ceptress has  made   in  this   little   book,  memo- 
randums of  the  subjects  on  which  she  intends 
talking.     She  is  preparing  fora  grand  show-off 
by  way  of  astonishing  the  natives,  as  brother 
Jack  would   say.     Here    is  the  book — 1  just 
now  found   it  hidden  away  in  the  very  back 


60  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OR 

part  of  the  desk.  Only  read  these  memoran- 
dums, and  see  how  they  will  make  you  laugh.' 

SUSANNA. — Oh  !  no,  indeed — nothing  could 
induce  me  to  meddle  with  that  memorandum 
book.  I  beg  of  you  to  return  it  to  its  place  in 
my  aunt's  desk.  It  is  highly  dishonourable  to 
read  any  writing  that  you  know  is  not  intended 
to  be  seen. 

CATHERINE. — Well,  then,  I'll  be  dishonour- 
able for  once,  and  so,  I'll  answer  for  it,  will 
every  girl  in  the  school  but  yourself.  But  see, 
the  little  ones  have  taken  flight  into  the  garden. 
Suppose  we  all  adjourn  thither.  We  can  have 
better  fun  there,  and  without  so  much  risk  of 
waking  old  Waxy. 

SUSANNA. — Let  me  entreat  you  to  put  back 
that  memorandum  book. 

CATHERINE. — Not  I,  indeed — it  shall  be  read 
in  a  committee  of  the  whole.  You  had  better 
come  and  hear  it.  I  am  sure  it  would  divert 
you. 

SUSANNA. — I  really  cannot  join  in  such  un- 
warrantable prcceedings.  I  would  much  rather 
stay  here.  Do,  pray,  give  me  the  book,  and  let 
me  put  it  back. 

CATHERINE. — No,  no, — not   at  least  till  we 


THE    VILLAGE    SCHOOL.  61 

have  taken  the  cream  of  it.  Come,  then,  girls, 
let  us  all  be  off  into  the  garden.' 

In  an  instant  they  were  out  of  the  school- 
room, but  Catherine  Ramsay,  turning  back,  and 
putting  her  head  in  at  the  door,  said,  ( Now 
Susnnna,  do  not  carry  your  honour  so  far  as  to 
wake  your  aunt,  and  betray  us  all  as  soon  as 
our  backs  are  turned.  She  is  sleeping  away 
now  as  if  she  was  not  to  awaken  for  a  hundred 
years,  like  the  princess  in  the  fairy  tale ;  though 
no  one,  I  am  sure,  will  ever  call  her  the  Sleep- 
ing Beauty.  There  is  one  good  thing  in  fat 
people — they  always  sleep  soundly.' 

SUSANNA. — Catherine,  what  have  you  seen 
in  me  to  authorize  the  suspicion  that  I  could 
act  so  meanly  as  to  betray  you  to  my  aunt  ? 

CATHERINE. — Oh  !  nothing — but  I  thought 
that  with  you,  duty  would  be  always  above 
honour.  Now  mind  that  you  do  not  deceive 
us  Of  all  tilings  in  the  world  I  despise  an 
informer. 

So  saying,  she  turned  from  the  door,  and  ran 
out  to  the  group  that  were  romping  through  the 
garden  in  the  very  hey-day  of  frolic,  galloping 
mischievously  over  tho  flower-beds,  committing 
the  most  reckless  depredations  on  the  currant 
G 


62  8U9ANNA    MEREDITH,     OR 

.bushes,  climbing  the  old  cherry  tree,  and  riding 
each  other  on  the  gate ;  while  Dido,  Mrs. 
Weatherwax's  only  servant,  a  black  girl  about 
sixteen,  stood  in  the  kitchen  door,  and  held  by 
its  sides  to  avoid  falling  down  with  laughter, 

Catherine  waved  above  her  head  the  memo- 
randum book,  and  assembling  the  elder  girls 
round  her,  they  threw  themselves  on  the  grass 
plat,  while  with  a  loud  voice  she  read  as 
follows. 

Memorandums  for  Mrs.  Ramsay's  Party. 

To  stir  my  tea  a  long  time,  that  I  may  say, 
'  I  like  all  the  composite  parts  of  the  beverage 
to  be  both  saturated  and  coagulated.' 

To  fan  myself,  that  I  may  say,  (  how  sweetly 
the  zephyrs  of  Boreas  temper  the  heat  of 
Phcbbus.' 

To  talk  of  the  late  eclipse,  and  to  explain 
that  it  was  caused  by  the  sun  going  behind  the 
equator. 

To  speak  highly  of  the  writings  of  Miss 
Hannah  More,  and  to  say  that  she  is  known 
throughout  the  civil  world,  and  has  spread  over 
Maine  and  Georgia. 


T  H  F.    V  I  I,  L  A  O  E     S  C  H  O  <»  L.  03 

To  speak  French  at  times ;  for  instance,  if 
there  is  any  cheese  among  the  relishes  at  tea, 
to  say  that  I  am  particularly  fond  of  frommage.* 
Also,  if  there  are  raspberries,  to  express  my 
liking  for  framboys.f  If  the  servant  should 
stumble  in  carrying  round  the  waiter,  to  say 
that  he  has  made  a  fox  pass.J 

Catherine  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when 
Susanna  appeared  at  the  door,  and  made  a 
sign  that  her  aunt  showed  symptoms  of  waking. 
Hastily,  and  as  quietly  as  possible,  all  the  girls 
returned  to  the  school-room,  which  Susanna, 
during  their  absence,  had  restored  to  its  usual 
order.  They  took  their  seats  on  the  benches, 
and  found  much  difficulty  in  checking  their 
mirth.  The  breathing  of  Mrs.  Weatherwax 
was  now  less  loud ;  she  twisted  her  head, 
threw  out  her  arms,  and  was  evidently  about 
to  awaken. 

Catherine  hastily  slipped  the  memorandum 
book  into  Susanna's  hand,  whispering,  ( Oh ! 
pray,  pray,  put  it  back  into  the  desk  immedi- 
ately.' And  the  little  heroine  of  the  fool's  cap 
hurried  that  ornament  again  on  her  head,  and 

*  Fromage,  cheese. .      f  Framboise*,  raspberries. 
J  Faux  pas,  false  step. 


64  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,    OK 

jumped  on  the  stool  of  disgrace  ;  but  in  sr 
doing  she  stumbled,  the  stool  tipped  over,  and 
fell  with  so  much  noise  as  effectually  to  waken 
Mrs.  Weatherwax,  who  started  upright  in  her 
chair,  rubbed  her  eyes  and  exclaimed, (  What 
is  all  this  ?  I  really  think  I  was  almost  begin- 
ning to  lose  myself — I  do  believe  I  must  have 
been  nodding,  or  something  very  near  it.' 

The  girls  held  down  their  heads,  put  their 
books  before  their  mouths,  and  made  great 
efforts  to  smother  their  laughter,  and  Catherine 
Ramsay  rose  up,  and  said  very  saucily, '  I  hope 
madam,  you  feel  the  better  for  your  nap.' 

'Nap  !'  exclaimed  the  governess,  '  who  will 
dare  to  say  that  I  have  been  taking  a  nap  ?' 
And,  according  to  the  custom  of  persons  who 
have  been  overtaken  with  sleep  in  company, 
she  declared  she  had  heard  every  thing  tha) 
had  passed. 

1  So  much  the  worse  for  us,  then,'  said  Cathe- 
rine, in  a  half  whisper  to  the  girl  that  sat  next 
to  her. 

1  Come,  go  on,'  said  the  governess,  rubbing 
her  eyes,  *  go  on  with  your  reading.  You 
have  been  a  long  time  getting  through  that  last 
page.' 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  65 

The  girls  tried  to  compose  themselves  to 
read ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  their  great 
relief,  the  clock  struck  five,  and  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax,  who  was  hardly  more  than  half  awake, 
gladly  dismissed  the  school.  They  could 
scarcely  wait  till  they  had  got  out  of  doors, 
before  they  simultaneously  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  the  old  lady's  perfect 
unconsciousness  of  all  that  had  gone  on  during 
her  sleep. 

The  memorandum  book  was  very  small,  and 
on  receiving  it  from  Catherine,  Susanna  slipt 
it  into  one  of  her  pockets ;  she  saw  that  while 
school  continued  she  would  have  no  oppor- 
tunity of  replacing  in  the  desk  ;  but  she  deter- 
mined to  do1  so  after  her  aunt  had  sat  down  to 
tea.  That  repast  Susanna  prepared  as  usual 
in  the  little  back  parlour,  and  when  it  was 
ready  she  announced  it  to  Mrs.  Weatherwax  ; 

but  what  was  her  co*nfusion  on  seeing  her  aunt. 
I 

as  soon  as  she  rose  from  her  chair,  turn  the 
key  which  was  sticking  in  the  desk,  and  depo- 
sit it  in  her  pocket!  In  what  manner  now 
was  Susanna  to  restore  the  memorandum  book 
to  the  desk,  before  her  aunt  should  discover 
that  it  had  been  removed  ? 


66  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,    OR 

After  tea,  Mrs.  Weatherwax  told  Susanna  to 
make  haste  in  washing  up  the  cups,  and  then 
bring  her  sewing  into  the  school-room.  She 
did  so,  and  found  her  aunt  most  ominously 
employed  in  searching  for  hard  words  in 
Entick's  Dictionary,  evidently  with  a  view  of 
obtaining  further  materials  for  her  memoran- 
dum book.  Susanna,  who  had  often  seen  Mrs. 
Weatherwax  thus  occupied,  when  she  had  a 
visit  in  prospect,  raised  her  eyes  frequently 
from  the  pillow-case  she  was  hemming,  and 
stole  uneasy  glances  at  her  aunt. 

At  last  she  saw  her  unlock  the  desk — e  My 
stars !'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  <  who  has 
dared  to  meddle  in  my  desk  ?  Somebody,  I 
see,  has  been  here.'  She  searched  into  its 
farthest  recesses,  and  then  called  out,  '  I  can't 
find  my  private  memorandum  book — has  any 
one  dared  to  take  it  away  ?' — fixing  her  largo 
eyes  full  on  poor  Susanna,  who,  unused  to  any 
thing  that  resembled  deception,  buried  her  face 
in  her  work. 

Mrs.  Weatherwax,  however,  seized  hor  niece 
by  the  arm,  and  dragging  her  forward,  pulled 
away  her  hands,  exclaiming,  .*  Now  look  me 
full  in  the  face,  and  say  you  did  not  take  that 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  67 

memorandum  book  out  of  my  desk.     Speak 
out — speak  loud.' 

'  I  did  not,'  replied  Susanna,  trying  to  look 
at  her  aunt's  inflamed  visage,  ( 1  did  not, 
indeed.' 

<  I   do  not    believe   you,'   vociferated   Mrs. 
Weatherwax,  shaking  her,  c  so  I  shall  make 
bold  to  search.' 

She  thrust  her  hand  into  Susanna's  pocket, 
and  drew  out  the  memorandum  book,  which 
she  held  up  triumphantly. 

'Indeed,  indeed,  I  did  not  take  it  from  the 
desk,'  sobbed  poor  Susanna. 

<  Then  you  know  who  did,'  cried  Mrs.  Wea- 
therwax, ( so  tell  me  this  instant.' 

Susanna  was  silent. 

( I  know  you  took  it  yourself,'  continued  Mrs. 
Weatherwax,  ( it's  exactly  like  you.' 

1  Oh  !  aunt,'  cried  Susanna,  <  it  is  not  like  me 
to  do  such  a  thing.' 

'  Not  another  word,'  pursued  the  enraged 
governess, — <  I  shall  believe  that  you  did  it, 
till  you  can  prove  your  innocence  by  telling  me 
the  real  culprit.  But  I  am  certain  it  was  your- 
self, and  I  shall  punish  you  accordingly.  I 


68  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OR 

suppose  you  took  care  to  read  every  word  of 
it?' 

Susanna,  much  hurt  at  so  unjust  a  suspicion, 
would  have  persisted  in  asseverating  her  inno- 
cence, but  she  feared  being  compelled  to  a  dis- 
closure of  the  real  offender,  and  she  kept  silent, 
replying  only  by  her  tears. 

Mrs.  Weathenvax,  highly  incensed,  bestowed 
on  her  a  torrent  of  opprobious  and  strangely 
sounding  epithets,  (none  of  which  were  to  be 
found  in  Entick's  Dictionary,)  and  ordered  her 
immediately  to  bed,  though  it  was  still  day- 
light. Poor  Susanna  could  not  sleep,  and 
passed  a  very  uncomfortable  night. 

In  the  morning  her  aunt  came  to  inform  her 
that  she  should  be  locked  up  for  a  week  in  her 
chamber — (  Not,  however,  in  idleness,'  she  con- 
tinued, '  for  I  have  plenty  of  sewing  for  you. 
You  shall  begin  immediately  to  make  up  my 
new  linen.  But  you  shan't  show  your  face  in 
the  school-room,  for  I  will  allow  you  no  chance 
of  whispering  to  all  the  girls  the  contents  of 
that  memorandum  book.' 

( I  really  did  not  read  one  line  of  it,'  said 
Susanna. 

'You  did  not  read  it,'  said  Mrs.  Weatherwax, 


THE     V  I  L  L  A  G  i:     S  C  U  u  <)  I,  69 

f  that's  a  likely  story  indeed.  Then  what  did 
you  steal  it  for  ?  Yes — you  shall  be  shut  up 
in  this  room,  and  you  shall  sow  at  my  linen 
from,  morning  till  night,  and  you  shall  live  on 
short  allowance  too,  I  promise  you.' 

Poor  Susanna  cried,  but  submitted. 

When  the  girls  assembled  at  school,  they 
were  surprised  to  see  nothing  of  Susanna,  but 
Mrs.  Weatherwax  told  them  she  was  sick. 
When  school  was  over  for  the  morning,  Cathe- 
rine Ramsay  and  several  of  the  other  girls 
asked  permission  to  go  to  Susanna's  room  to 
see  her.  This  request  was  promptly  refused 
by  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  on  the  plea  that  company 
always  made  sick  people  worse. 

t  Poor  Susanna  !'  murmured  Catherine,  f  all 
I  wonder  at  is  that  she  should  ever  be  well.' 

In  the  evening  Mrs.  Weatherwax  put  her- 
self into  full  dress,  and  went  to  Mrs.  Ramsay's 
tea  party,  where  Catherine  and  her  cousin 
Lucy  Philips  could  scarcely  keep  their  counte- 
nances when  they  heard  the  old  lady  take 
occasion  to  bring  out,  one  after  another,  all  the 
set  speeches  that  she  had  noted  in  her  memo- 
randum book.  When  the  tea  waiter  was 
brought  in,  (on  which  Catherine  had  taken 


70  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,    OR 

care  that  there  should  be  a  plate  of  sliced 
cheese,)  — ( Now,'  whispered  the  mischevous 
girl,  '  she  is  going  to  say  frommage.'  And 
when  the  raspberries  were  handed  round — 
1  Now  she  is  going  to  talk  of  framboys,' —  and 
so  she  did.  But  as  no  servant  happened  to 
stumble,  there  was  unluckily  no  opportunity 
for  the  fox-pass. 

Susanna  had  been  invited  to  this  party,  but 
Mrs.  Weatherwax  alleged  her  illness  as  an 
excuse  for  not  bringing  her. 

Mrs.  Ramsay's  house  was  only  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road,  and  about  nine  o'clock, 
Catherine  put  some  of  the  best  cakes  into  a 
little  basket,  with  two  oranges,  and  slipped 
over  to  Mrs.  Weatherwax's. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Dido,  the  black 
girl,  with  the  kitchen  lamp  in  her  hand. 
When  Catherine  told  her  that  she  wished  to 
see  Susanna,  as  Mrs.  Weatherwax  said  she 
was  very  sick,  the  girl  grinned  widely  and 
said,  <La  !  bless  you,  Miss  Caterine,  han't  you 
got  no  more  sense  than  to  b'lieve  old  Missus  ? 
Miss  Susannar  an't  no  more  sick  than  I  am — 
she's  only  shot  up  for  a  punishing.  I  wanted 
to  walk  her  about  as  soon  as  the  old  woman's 


T  II  E    V  I  L  I,  A  0  E    8  C  H  0  0  I-.  71 

back  was  turned,  (for  all  she  gave  me  the  key, 
and  charged  and  overcharged  me  to  keep  her 
fast)  ;  but  Miss  Susannar  would  not  agree  to 
be  let  out.  She's  too  paticlar  about  doing 
what's  'xactly  right,  and  old  Missus  won't 
even  let  nobody  into  see  her.  She's  'hibited 
her  from  all  'munication  with  the  known 
world.' 

t  But  I  must  and  will  see  her,'  said  Cathe- 
rine, giving  the  black  girl  a  cake  and  an 
orange. 

'To  be  sure  you  shall,  bless  your  heart,' 
replied  Dido,  <•  so  folly  on  after  me,  and  I'll 
'duct  you  up  stairs  to  her  sorrowful  dungeon 
prison.' 

As  they  proceeded  up  the  staircase,  Dido, 
who  went  before  with  the  light,  turned  her 
head  and  said,  1 1  say,  Miss  Caterine,  don't 
you  hate  old  Missus?' 

'  To  be  sure  I  do,'  replied  Catherine. 

*  That's  me  '  xactly,'  exclaimed  the  girl — 
'Me  and  you  are  birds  of  a  feather.  I  hate 
her  like  pison.  When  people's  mean,  and 
pinching,  and  cross,  and  hard-hearted  beside, 
they  can't  expect  folks  to  love  them.' 


72  8  V  8  A  N  N  A     M  E  K  E  1>  I  T  II,     0  R 

( Mean  people  are  always  cross,'  remarked 
Catherine, 

•  If  I  did'nt  visit  about  among  the  neigh- 
bours,' continued  the  girl,  <I  could'nt  make  out 
at  all — old  Missus  keeps  us  so  short  of  victuals.' 

They  now  arrived  at  the  door  of  Susanna's 
room,  which  Dido  threw  open,  saying,  f There 
sets  the  poor  creatur.  Here,  Miss  Susannar, 
raise  up  your  head  from  the  window  bench, 
and  look  at  Miss  Caterine  axing  to  see  you.' 

She  then  withdrew  into  a  corner  to  suck  her 
orange,  while  Catherine  threw  her  arms  round 
Susanna's  neck,  and  eagerly  inquired  what 
was  the  matter,  and  on  what  pretext  Mrs. 
Weatherwax  had  shut  her  up. 

Susanna  wept,  but  said  nothing. 

<  I'll  tell  you  what,  Miss  Caterine,'  cried 
Dido,  ( It's  all  about  something  that  old  Missus 
calls  her  random  book,  that  she  says  Miss 
Susannar  stole  out  of  her  desk.  I  just  put  my 
ear  to  the  keyhole  a  minute,  (as  I  always  do,) 
and  I  heard  her  last  night  proper  loud  and 
high.  She  couldn't  have  scolded  worse  if 
she'd  stole  a  pocket  book  full  of  bank  notes. 
Now  I  don't  b'ieve  Miss  Susannar  ever  steals 
any  thing.' 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  73 

<  Oh !  Susanna,'  exclaimed  Catherine,  <  I 
fear  you  are  indeed  suffering  for  that  vile 
memorandum  book  which  I  took  out  of  the 
desk  myself,  and  thoughtlessly  put  into  your 
hands  to  replace.  And  you  have  really 
allowed  yourself  to  be  unjustly  blamed  and 
punished,  rather  than  betray  so  worthless  a 
person  as  I  am  ?' 

An  explanation  now  ensued,  and  Catherine 
declared  she  would  go  home  that  moment, 
and  proclaim  the  truth  to  Mrs.  Weatherwax. 
Susanna,  unwilling  that  any  thing  should  be 
said  or  done  which  might  lead  to  an  exposure 
of  her  aunt,  besought  Catherine  to  wait  at  least 
till  next  morning,  when  she  could  see  Mrs. 
Weatherwax  before  the  school  assembled. 
They  were  still  arguing  the  point,  when  a 
heavy  step  was  heard  ascending  the  stairs, 
and  Mrs.  AVeatherwax  in  all  her  terrors  stood 
before  them. 

The  tea  party  was  over,  and  attracted  by 
the  light  in  Susanna's  room,  the  old  lady  has- 
tened thither  immediately,  to  ascertain  the 
cause.  Catherine  instantly  ran  up  to  her,  and 
made  a  frank  declaration  of  her  own  delin- 
quency and  Susanna's  innocence,  but  which 
7 


74  SUSANNA     MEREDITH,     OR 

Mrs.  Weatherwax  pertinaciously  insisted  on 
disbelieving.  The  fact  was,  the  old  lady  had 
that  strange  delight  which  is  felt  by  some 
people, -in  trampling  on  the  oppressed,  and  in 
oppressing  every  one  that  is  unfortunately  in 
their  power.  Being  very  much  incensed,  and 
determined  to  punish  somebody,  she  preferred 
venting  her  anger  on  poor  Susanna,  in  a  way 
that  she  was  accustomed  to,  rather  than  to 
devise  a  mode  of  correction  for  such  a  spirit  as 
that  of  Catherine  Ramsay.  Also,  she  prudently 
remembered  that  Catherine  was  the  child  of 
wealthy  parents. 

1  Why,  Mrs.  Weatherwax,'  said  Catherine, 
'  do  you  persist  in  pretending  to  believe  that 
the  memorandum  book  was  taken  out  of  your 
desk  by  Susanna,  and  not  by  me  ?' 

(  Yes,  I  do,'  answered  the  governess,  e  not- 
withstanding this  fit  of  generosity,  fas  I  suppose 
you  call  it,)  in  laying»the  blame  on  yourself. 
I  know  she  took  it.  All  her  ways  are  low  and 
grovelling.' 

1  They  are  no  such  thing,'  interrupted 
Catherine. 

( A  youg  lady  like  you,'  pursued  Mrs.  Wea- 
therwax, ( the  only  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs 


THE    VILLAGE     SCHOOL.  75 

Ramsay,  with  her  father  in  the  Assembly,  could 
not  be  guilty  of  any  thing  so  dishonourable.' 

1 1  stand  corrected,'  said  Catherine,  colouring, 
<  I  own  it  \vns  dishonourable.  Nevertheless  I 
actually  did  it.  I  felt  so  full  of  mischief  at  the 
moment,  that  I  was  capable  of  any  thing,  and  I 
had  no  thought  of  the  consequences.  Do  you 
say  that  Susanna  is  still  to  be  kept  a  prisoner 
in  her  room  ? 

Mrs.  Weatherwax  thought  to  herself,  £I  will 
keep  her  there  till  she  has  finished  making  my 
linen,  which  will  be  more  advantageous  to  me 
just  now  than  what  she  dees  in  the  school ;  and 
I  will  make  Dido  sweep  and  dust,  and  put  the 
school-room  in  order.'  Then  raising  her  voice, 
the  old  Jady  exclaimed  loudly,  ( I  say  that 
Susanna  Meredith  shall  go  through  the  whole 
of  the  punishment.' 

<  Well,  madam,'  said  Catherine,  (  I  repeat 
once  more  that  I  alone  am  guilty.  If  I  do  not 
see  Susanna  in  her  place  again  to-morrow 
morning,  I  shall  explain  the  whole  to  my 
father  and  mother,  and  then  I  am  well  per- 
suaded they  will  at  once  take  me  away  from 
your  school.' 

So  caying,   Catherine    immediately   walked 


76  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,    OR 

out  of  the  room  with  an  air  of  resolute  defiance, 
and  returned  to  her  own  home. 

Mrs.  Weatherwax,  much  enraged,  scolded  a 
while  longer,  blamed  poor  Susanna  for  having 
put  <  all  this  impudence,'  as  she  called  it,  into 
Catherine's  head,  and  again  locking  up  her 
unfortunate  niece,  she  retired  for  the  night. 

Next  morning  about  breakfast  time,  a  letter 
was  brought  to  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  which  she 
read  with  much  surprise  and  emotion,  and  then 
carefully  secured  it  in  her  desk.  She  sat  a 
while  and  pondered,  and  afterwards  repaired 
to  Susanna's  apartment,  with  a  face  drest  in 
smiles,  and  a  voice  subdued  to  unusual  softness. 

(  Good  morning,  my  love,'  said  she,  kissing 
ner  cheek,  l  you  may  now  come  down  stairs. 
Lay  aside  your  sewing — breakfast  is  ready.' 

Susanna,  much  surprised  at  these  unprece- 
dented indications  of  kindness,  gladly  obeyed, 
and  Mrs.  Weatherwax  actually  herself  placed 
a  chair  for  her  at  table.  On  this  happy  morn- 
ing, her  aunt  gave  her  a  cup  of  good  coffee, 
before  the  pot  was  filled  up  with  water,  and 
put  into  it  plenty  of  cream  and  sugar.  She 
also  helped  her  to  some  ham  and  eggs,  (though 
she  had  often  told  her  that  relishes  were  unfit 


T  II  E    VILLAGE    SCHOOL.  77 

for  children,)  and  she  repeatedly  handed  her 
the  plate  of  warm  cakes,  exhorting  her  to  eat 
heartily. 

Susanna  was  thoroughly  amazed,  and  began 
to  fear  that  all  this  was  only  a  dream. 

When  the  children  assembled,  Mrs.  Weather- 
wax  had  not  yet  appeared  in  the  school-room, 
and  Catherine  Ramsay,  flying  up  to  Susanna, 
congratulated  her  on  her  evident  release,  saying, 
'  I  am  glad  I  threatened  Mrs.  Weathenvax  with 
quitting  her  school,  and  I  know  if  I  had  ex- 
plained all,  my  father  and  mother  would  have 
taken  me  away  at  once.  They  would  have 
done  so  long  before  this  time,  only  that  the  old 
woman  is  so  soon  to  give  up.' 

<  Oh  !  Catherine,'  exclaimed  Susanna,  <  do 
not  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  my  aunt.  You 
know  not  how  kind  she  has  been  to  me  this 
morning.' 

Mrs.  Weatherwax  now  came  in,  and  said  to 
her  niece  in  the  mildest  manner  possible, 
<  Susanna,  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to- 
day to  hear  the  little  girls  their  lessons.  You 
may  go  to  the  store  and  choose  yourself  a 
couple  of  frocks,  and  then  take  them  to  Becky 

Walker,  the   mantuamaker,  and   get  yourself 
7* 


78  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OB. 

fitted  for  them.     Tell  her  you  must  have  them 
made  at  once.' 

The  children  all  opened  their  eyes  wide 
with  amazement,  and  poor  Susanna  stood 
motionless,  affected  almost  to  tears  at  her  aunt's 
unaccountable  kindness.  '  If  you  please,  aunt,' 
said  she,  in  a  faltering  voice,  *  I  would  rather 
you  should  choose  the  frocks  for  me.  I  am  so 
unaccustomed  to  getting  things  for  myself.' 

f  Well,  then,  rny  dear,'  answered  Mrs. 
Weatherwax,  <  I  will  go  with  you  after  school ; 
but  I  thought  it  would  gratify  you  to  leave  the 
choice  to  yourself.  There  are,  beside  the 
frocks,  some  other  things  that  I  think  you 
would  like  to  have.' 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  the  grateful 
Susanna  had  an  opportunity  of  saying  to 
Catherine,  (  Well,  what  do  you  think  now  ? 
Is  not  my  aunt  kind  ?' 

'  Think  !'  answered  Catherine,  l  why,  I  am 
thinking  of  a  farce  that  I  saw  at  the  theatre 
when4!  was  last  in  the  city.  A  farce  in  which 
a  termagant  lady  and  a  good  humoured  cob- 
bler's wife  are  transformed  by  a  conjuror  into 
each  other's  likenesses,  and  placed  in  each 
other's  houses.  We  are  all  as  much  astonished 


THE    VILLAGE    SCHOO  t.  79 

as  were  the  servants  of  Lady  Loverule,  wnen 
they  found  themselves  treated  with  kindness 
by  Neil  Jobson,  whom  they  supposed  to  be 
their  mistress.  1  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
some  such  conjuror  has  been  at  work  last 
night.  This  cannot  be  the  real  old  Waxy.' 

<•  Oh  !  do  not  talk  so,'  said  Susanna. 

( Well,'  replied  Catherine,  ( I  only  hope  the 
illusion  may  last  as  long  as  you  wish  it.' 

But  Mrs.  Weatherwax  (as  one  of  the  little 
girls  remarked  in  a  whisper,)  <  could  not  get 
good  all  at  once  ;'  and  as,  from  some  unknown 
motive,  she  now  thought  it  expedient  to  be  all 
mildness  towards  Susanna,  so  she  vented  a 
proportionate  quantity  of  ill-humour  on  the 
other  girls — always  excepting  Catherine  Ram- 
say, and  three  or  four  more  who  had  rich 
parents. 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Weatherwax  helped  Susanna 
to  an  excellent  slice  of  roast  lamb,  and  gave 
her  a  large  piece  of  currant  pie,  not  telling  her 
as  usual  that  pastry  was  unwholesome  for 
children,  and  that  she  had  better  finish  with  a 
crust  of  bread.  To  be  brief,  her  kindness  con- 
tinued so  to  increase,  that  Susanna  could 
scarcely,  indeed  believe  in  her  identity. 


80  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OB. 

And  the  mystery  of  this  inexplicable  gookness 
in  all  that  regarded  her  niece,  and  which 
abated  not  during  two  weeks,  caused  much 
speculation  among  the  school  girls. 

Not  only  two  new  frocks  were  procured  for 
Susanna,  but  also  a  new  bonnet,  and  many 
other  articles  of  dress,  so  that  she'  now  made  a 
very  good  appearance.  She  was  no  longer 
kept  all  day  in  the  school-room,  but  she  was 
allowed  the  afternoon  to  herself,  and  desired  to 
sew,  or  read,  or  walk,  or  do  whatever  she 
pleased.  But  so  much  timidity  had  been 
ground  into  her  by  seven  years  of  oppression 
and  hard  usage,  that  poor  Susanna  was  afraid 
to  avail  herself  freely  of  the  indulgences  that 
were  now  offered  to  her  option. 

Things  had  gone  on  in  this  manner  for 
about  a  fortnight,  when  Mrs.  Weatherwax, 
after  receiving  a  second  letter,  announced  to 
her  pupils  that  she  would  give  them  a  holiday 
the  next  day.  This  holiday,  she  told  them, 
was  on  account  of  the  expected  arrival  of  Mr. 
Manderson  from  South  Carolina,  the  grand* 
father  of  Susanna  Meredith.  This  gentleman 
was  going  to  remove  to  Boston,  his  native 
place,  and,  on  his  way  thither,  intended  stop- 


T  H  K     V  I  1.  L  A  (i  K     *  C  11  U  O  L.  81 

ping  at  the  village  to  see  Susanna.  Mrs 
Weatherwax  also  announced  that  Mr.  Mander 
son  was  a  man  of  great  wealth,  and  that  death 
having  deprived  him  of  all  his  four  children, 
he  had  determined  to  take  Susanna  home  with 
him,  and  make  her  his  heiress.  The  girls 
were  all  delighted  with  this  news,  of -which 
Susanna  herself  had  only  been  apprised  that 
morning,  and  which,  of  course,  made  her  very 
happy.  Catherine  Ramsay  was  now  furnished 
with  a  key  to  all  Mrs.  Weatherwax's  extraor- 
dinary kindness  towards  Susanna  for  the  last 
two  weeks. 

The  truth  was  that  Mr.  Manderson's  first 
letter  informed  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  that  he  had 
deeply  repented  having  discarded  his  eldest 
daughter  in  consequence  of  her  marriage  with 
Mr.  Meredith  during  a  visit  to  the  north,  and 
to  whom  he  had  objected  as  being  a  man  of  no 
property,  and  of  obscure  family.  But  that 
having  recently  lost  the  last  of  his  children,  he 
had  determined  on  claiming  his  long-neglected 
grand-daughter,  the  orphan  of  his  favourite 
Louisa. 

Mrs.  Weatherwax  was  the  step-sister  of 
Susanna's  father,  and  had  been  set  up  in  her 


82  SUSANNA    MEREDITH,     OR 

school  by  money  with  which  he  had  furnished 
her  in  his  most  prosperous  days.  She  had 
taken  charge  of  Susanna  on  the  death  of  the 
child's  parents,  pretending  to  do  so  out  of  pure 
benevolence,  but  in  reality  of  availing  herself 
of  her  niece's  services. 

Mr.  Manderson's  second  letter  notified  the 
precise  day  on  which  he  expected  to  reach  the 
village ;  and  Mrs.  Weatherwax  had  an  apart- 
ment prepared  for  him,  determined  to  insist  on 
his  staying  at  her  house. 

The  holiday  was  given.  A  dinner  extraor- 
dinary was  in  the  progress  of  preparation,  and 
the  hour  of  his  expected  arrival  approached. 
Susanna  was  drest  in  the  handsomest  of  her 
new  frocks,  and  seated  beside  her  aunt,  en- 
gaged, by  her  order,  in  working  a  bobbinet 
collar.  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  also  in  her  best, 
was  arranged  in  her  arm-chair,  with  a  French 
book  in  her  hand  :  and  Dido,  every  few 
minutes,  deserted  her  cookery  to  look  out  at 
the  gate. 

At  length  a  carriage  stopped  before  the 
house,  and,  at  the  moment  that  the  over-de- 
lighted Dido  ushered  Mr.  Manderson  into  the 


T  II  K     VILLAGE     SCHOOL. 

parlour,  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Weatherwax  was 
fondly  encircling  the  waist  of  Susanna. 

<  Is  that  my  grand-daughter  ?'  exclaimed 
Mr.  Manderson,  as  Susanna  rose,  timidly  to 
meet  his  embrace. 

1  Yes,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  who  on 
this  occasion  thought  it  expedient  to  display 
some  French — (  Here  she  is,  looking  like  a 
button  de  rose,*  as  she  always  does,  and  with 
nothing  to  trouble  her  gaiety  de  curef  but  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  poor  fond  aunt,  whose 
greatest  bonehe\ver^  is  loving  and  petting  her. 
Is  it  not  so,  Susanna  ?' 

To  conclude,  Mr.  Manderson  was  much 
affected  by  Susanna's  resemblance  to  her 
deceased  mother,  and  he  felt  that  the  only 
atonement  he  could  make  for  his  undue  seve- 
rity to  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Meredith,  was  to 
take  her  child  to  his  heart,  and  cherish  her 
with  the  warmest  tenderness. 

He  stayed  till  next  morning ;  and  in  the 
meantime,  Mrs.  Weatherwax  so  entirely  over- 

*  Louton  de  rose,  rose-bud. 

•}•  Gaiete  de  cceur,  literally,  gaiety  of  heart. 

J  Bonheur,  happiness. 


84  SUSANNA     MEREDITH,     OR 

acted  her  part,  as  to  convince  Mr.  Manderson 
that  her  excessive  fondness  for  Susanna  was 
any  thing  but  real.  The  old  Jady  also  gave 
frequent  hints  of  a  wish  to  be  invited  to  pay 
him  and  Susanna  a  visit  when  he  should  be 
settled  at  his  own  house,  taking  care  to  inform 
him,  that  on  the  first  of  August  she  was  going 
to  resign  her  school,  and  should  after  that  be 
quite  at  leisure.  But  none  of  these  hints  made 
any  impression  on  Mr.  Manderson.  As  he 
could  not  for  a  moment  think  of  allowing  his 
grand-daughter  to  be  under  the  slightest  obli- 
gation to  such  a  woman,  he  required  of  Mrs. 
Wealherwax  an  estimate  of  Susanna's  ex- 
penses, during  the  whole  time  she  had  been 
in  her  charge.  Mrs.  Weatherwax,  fearing  that 
nothing  else  was  to  be  obtained  from  the  old 
gentleman,  made  out  a  bill  of  enormous  length, 
amounting  to  five  times  as  much  as  her  actual 
expenditure  on  Susanna*  Mr.  Manderson 
looked  only  at  the  total,  and  without  any  com- 
ment, gave  her  a  check  for  that  sum  ;  but  he 
did  not  present  Mrs.  Weatherwax  with  a  hand- 
some watch  that  he  had  brought  with  him  as 
a  gift  for  her. 

Dido,  the  black  girl,  took  an  opportunity  of 


THE    VILLAGK     SCHOOL.  85 

begging  Susanna  '  to  speak  a  good  word  for 
her'  to  her  grandfather,  that  she  might  be 
allowed  to  go  and  live  with  them.  (  For  you 
know,  Miss  Susannar,'  said  she,  <  old  Missus  is 
going  to  board  out  when  she  breaks  up,  and  she 
would  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  me,  as  she 
don't  want  me  no  more  ;  and  she  has  been  trying 
to  get  some  of  the  neighbours  to  take  me  off  her 
hands,  only  none  of  them  won't  have  me.' 

This  business  was  soon  arranged.  Dido's 
indentures  were  duly  transferred  to  Mr.  Man- 
derson,  and  from  that  moment  she  called  her- 
self Miss  Susanna's  waiting-woman. 

Susanna  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  her 
young  companions,  particularly  of  Catherine 
Ramsay,  who  parted  from  her  with  many 
tears,  and  was  invited  by  Mr.  Manderson  to 
spend  the  ensuing  winter  with  his  grand- 
daughter. 

Susanna  was  soon  established  in  an  elegant 
mansion  with  her  grandfather,  who  engaged 
an  amiable  and  accomplished  woman  as  gover- 
ness, to  complete  her  education,  assisted  by  the 
best  masters.  And  Catherine  Ramsay  improved 
greatly  during  the  long  visit  which  she  paid 
next  winter  to  her  excellent  young  friend. 
8 


THE 
LAUNCH    OF    THE    FKIGATK. 


CORNELIA  CAMELFORD  had  just  recovered 
from  a  long  and  dangerous  illness,  and  had  not 
received  the  doctor's  permission  to  go  out,  when 
much  interest  was  excited  in  Philadelphia  by 
the  expected  launch  of  the  Guerrier,  which  was 
built  at  Kensington  during  the  last  war,  and 
called  after  the  first  British  frigate  that  surren- 
dered to  the  flag  of  America,  Junius  Camel- 
ford,  who  was  a  midshipman  and  the  eldest  of 
Cornelia's  two  brothers,  was  highly  elated  with 
the  idea  of  the  approaching  spectacle,  and  ex- 
tremely impatient  for  the  glorious  day  (as  he 
railed  it)  to  arrive.  At  last  it  came  :  and  the 
children  of  Mrs.  Camelford  could  think  and 
talk  of  nothing  else. 
(86, 


THE    LAUNCH     OF    THE    FRIGATE.  87 

Junius  was  one  of  the  midshipmen  appointed 
to  the  new  frigate,  and  every  hour  seemed  to 
him  an  age  until  she  should  be  fairly  afloat  in 
her  proper  element.  Boy  as  he  was,  he  had 
been  on  board  the  Constitution  when  she  en-  - 
gaged  and  sunk  the  British  Guerrier,  and  had 
evinced  on  that  memorable  day  the  courage  of 
a  man.  When  he  was  afterwards  in  Phila- 
delphia, thu  progress  of  the  new  frigate  became 
the  leading  thought  of  his  mind.  He  had  taken 
his  sisters  to  see  the  keel  the  day  after  it  was 
laid  :  and  had  furnished  all  the  young  ladies  he 
knew,  with  hearts  and  anchors  which  he  cut 
out  from  chips  of  the  wood. 

Mrs.  Camelford  had  been  a  widow  about  two 
years,  and  since  the  death  of  her  husband  she 
had  felt  an  insurmountable  repugnance  to 
appearing  in  public,  or  mixing  in  a  crowd. 
Therefore  she  had  no  intention  of  going  herself 
to  see  the  frigate  launched,  but  she  knew  that 
her  children  would  take  great  pleasure  in  the 
sight,  and  she  loved  them  too  much  to  deny 
them  this  gratification  because  she  could  not 
enjoy  it  herself. 

Cornelia  was  just  getting  over  the  same 
malady  that  two  years  before  had  been  fatal  to 


88  THE     LAUNCH     OF     THE     FRIGATE. 

her  father :  and  Mrs.  Camelford  still  felt  the 
greatest  anxiety  about  her,  as  she  was  particu- 
larly susceptible  of  cold,  which  was  always 
very  injurious  to  her ;  and  the  slightest  impru- 
dent exposure  might  probably  bring  on  a  dan 
gerous  relapse. 

For  this  reason,  when  Mrs.  Camelford  con- 
sented that  her  two  sons  and  her  daughter  Octa- 
via  should  go  to  see  the  frigate  launched,  she 
did  not  extend  the  same  permission  to  the  inva- 
lid. "And  I,  dear  mother,"  said  Cornelia,  as 
she  sat  at  the  breakfast  table  the  first  time  for 
near  three  months,  "am  /not  also  to  enjoy  the 
sight  ?" 

MRS.  CAMELFORD. — My  dearest  Cotnelia,  I 
am  sorry  to  refuse  you  that  or  any  other  plea- 
sure that  your  sisters  and  brothers  partake  of. 
But  the  air  from  the  river  may  be  cool.  Re- 
member that  it  was  only  yesterday  you  left 
your  chamber,  after  being  confined  to  it  more 
than  twelve  weeks. 

OCTAVIA. — Oh  !  indeed  mother,  this  is  quite 
a  warm  day. 

MRS.  CAMELFORD. — To  persons  in  health  1 
know  it  is,  but  though  the  air  is  clear  and  mild, 
it  may  be  chilly  to  poor  Cornelia,  who  is  en- 


THE    LAUNCH    OF    THE     FRIOATB.  89 

feebled  by  sickness,  and  who  has  been  so  long 
shut  up  in  her  room.  She  has  suffered  so 
much  already,  that  I  am  sure  she  must  dread 
every  thing  that  might  cause  a  relapse. 

ADRIAN. — But,  dear  mother,  how  will  it  be 
possible  for  Cornelia  to  take  cold  if  she  is  well 
wrapped  up  in  her  large  shawl,  and  if  she 
wears  her  close  bonnet  ? 

MRS.  CAMELFORD. — Indeed,  I  arn  afraid  she 
ought  not  to  venture  the  slightest  risk.  Lieute- 
nant Osbrook  has  politely  offered  accommodation 
for  the  whole  family,  in  one  of  the  gun-boats  at 
Kensington,  and  I  have  accepted  the  invitation 
for  Adrian  and  Octavia,  as  Junius  is  to  be  on 
board  the  frigate.  I  believe  my  dear  Cornelia 
must  content  herself  with  hearing  a  description 
of  the  launch  from  her  brothers  and  sister.  I 
cannot  consent  to  her  sitting  an  hour  or  two  on 
the  deck  of  the  gun-boat,  in  the  open  air,  with 
the  breeze  from  the  river  blowing  round  her. 

CORNELIA. — Indeed,  mother,  I  am  very  sorry. 
I  hoped  to  be  quite  well  and  able  to  go  any 
where,  before  the  launch  took  place 

JUNIUS.  Still,  I  think  there  can  be  no  dan- 
ger. Her  delight  at  the  spectacle  will  set  her 
8* 


90  THE    LAUNCH    OP    THE     FBIGATE. 

blood  in  a  glow,  as  it  has  mine  already,  and 
that  will  prevent  her  taking  cold. 

MRS.  CAMELFORD.  My  dear  children,  do  not 
urge  me  any  further.  The  sight  will  no  doubt 
be  highly  interesting,  but  it  will  be  dearly  pur- 
chased by  the  return  of  Cornelia's  late  illness. 

Cornelia  did  not  reply,  but  she  kissed  her 
mother  in  token  of  acquiescence,  and  seated 
herself  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  with  her  sewing 
In  a  few  minutes  her  brother  Adrian  brought 
her  in  a  new  and  entertaining  book,  which  he 
had  just  purchased  with  the  hope  that  it  would 
divert  her  mind  from  dwelling  on  her  disap- 
pointment. Cornelia  took  the  book  very  grate- 
fully, but  though  it  was  extremely  amusing,  her 
thoughts  still  wandered,  at  times,  to  Kensing- 
ton and  the  new  frigate 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Mrs.  Camelford 
had  a  visit  from,  her  friend,  Mrs.  Dimsdale,  who 
expressed  great  pleasure  at  finding  Cornelia 
down  stairs,  and  hoped  she  was  well  enough  to 
go  to  see  the  ship  launched. 

Mrs.  Camelford  explained  that  she  had  re- 
fused Cornelia  her  permission  to  join  the  little 
party  in  the  gun-boat,  being  afraid  of  her  taking 
cold  if  exposed  to  the  air  of  the  river.  "  Oh  ! 


THE     LAUNCH     OF     THE     FK1UATE.  '.'] 

if  that  is  all,"  said  Mrs.  Dimsdale,  "the  diffi- 
culty, I  hope,  can  be  easily  obviated.  Mr. 
Dimsdale  and  myself  are  going  to  take  the  chil- 
dren up  to  Kensington  in  one  of  the  steamboats. 
You  know  the  boats  are  all  put  in  requistion 
for  the  accommodation  of  persons  that  wish  to  see 
the  show.  If  you  will  permit  Cornelia  to  ac- 
company our  family,  she  can  stay  all  the  time 
in  the  cabin,  and  have  an  excellent  view  from 
the  stern-windows,  without  any  exposure  at 
all." 

Cornelia's  eyes  turned  upon  her  mother,  with 
a  look  of  entreaty.  Mrs.  Camelford  hesitated 
a  few  moments,  and  Octavia  ventured  again  to 
supplicate  in  behalf  of  her  sister.  At  last,  Cor- 
nelia obtained  permission  to  go  with  the  Dims- 
dales ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Camel- 
ford's  carriage  was  to  take  them  down  to  the 
steamboat,  after  which  it  was  to  return  imme- 
diately and  convey  the  other  party  to  Kensing- 
ton. 

When  Adrian  came  home  from  school,  and 
Junius  from  the  ship-yard,  (where  he  had  almost 
lived  for  several  days,)  the  boys  wtre  delighted 
to  find  that  Cornelia  was,  at  last,  allowed  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  the  launch.  They  had 


92  THE     LAUNCH     OF     THE     FRIGATE. 

an  early  dinner,  of  which  Lieutenant  and  Mrs. 
Osbrook  had  been  invited  to  partake,  and  in  a 
short  time  after  the  carriage  was  at  the  door. 
Cornelia  was  carefully  wrapped  in  her  large 
shawl,  and  Mrs.  Camelford  said  to  her,  "  Now, 
my  dear,  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will 
remain  all  the  time  in  the  cabin  of  the  boat,  and 
not  allow  yourself  to  be  tempted  to  go  on  deck, 
even  for  a  few  moments."  "  Certainly,  dear 
mother,"  replied  Cornelia,  (<  I  will  cheerfully 
make  that  promise,  for  I  am  thankful  that  you 
will  allow  me  to  see  the  frigate  on  any  terms." 
Mrs.  Camelford  kissed  Cornejia,  and  her  bro- 
thers put  her  into  the  carriage,  which,  on 
its  way  down  to  the  wharf,  stopped  to  take 
up  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ditnsdale  and  their  two  chil- 
dren. 

Cornelia  felt  very  happy  at  rinding  herself 
once  more  riding  through  the  streets,  after  so 
long  a  confinement  to  her  chamber.  Every  well 
known  store  and  house  seemed  to  interest  her  as 
she  passed,  and  ail  the  people  she  saw  appeared 
to  her  to  look  unusually  well.  She  soon  found 
herself  seated  in  the  after-cabin  of  the  steamboat, 
which  was  crowded  with  females,  and  so  warm 
that  Cornelia  had  no  occasion  to  wear  her  shawl : 


THK     LAUNCH     OF     THE     FK1UATK.  93 

her  mother  having  told  her  that  she  might  take 
it  off,  if  she  found  it  oppressive. 

The  carriage  having  returned,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Osbrook,  with  Adrian  and  Octavia,  got  into  i* 
and  rode  to  Kensington  ;  Junius,  in  a  new  suit 
of  uniform,  and  wkh  a  new  cockade  in  his  hat, 
having  ]ong  before  set  out  on  foot,  as  he  despised 
riding  when  it  was  practicable  to  walk,  and  the 
distance  from  his  mother's  house  to  the  ship-yard 
now  seemed  almost  nothing,  having  been  so 
often  traversed  by  him.  In  a  very  short  time, 
he  was  on  the  deck  of  the  frigate,  with  a  num- 
ber of  officers  and  other  gentlemen,  beside  the 
ship-wrights.  That  afternoon,  almost  all  the 
stores  in  Philadelphia  were  shut  up,  and  few 
of  the  inhabitants  remained  in  their  houses. 
Till  near  three  o'clock,  the  whole  population  of 
the  city  seemed  to  be  pouring  towards  the 
Northern  Liberties :  all  the  streets  in  the  di- 
rection of  Kensington  being  crowded  with 
people. 

When  the  party  from  Mrs.  Camelford's  ar- 
rived at  the  river-side,  the  vast  concourse  far 
exceeded  their  expectations,  though  Junius  had 
told  them  that  the  crowd  had  begun  to  assemble 
as  early  as  twelve  o'clock.  They  were  soon 


94         THE  LAUNCH  OF  THE  TKIGATE. 

seated  on  chairs,  on  the  deck  of  the  gun-boat, 
and  Lieutenant  Osbrook  left  the  ladies  undei 
the  care  of  another  gentleman,  while  he  wen* 
on  board  the  frigate. 

The  river  was  covered  with  boats  of  every 
description,  filled  with  people.  The  roofs,  as 
well  as  the  windows  of  the  houses  and  stores 
that  commanded  a  view  of  the  water,  were 
crowded  with  spectators  ;  and  so  also  were  the 
trees.  Scaffolds,  which  had  been  erected  for 
the  purpose,  were  lined  with  tiers  of  occupants, 
one  row  above  another.  All  the  ships  then  in 
port,  had  gone  up  to  Kensington,  and  their 
decks  were  crowded  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  ; 
the  sailors  taking  their  stations  in  the  rigging. 
In  two  or  three  vessels  were  bands  of  military 
music,  and  a  third  band  was  playing  in  the 
frigate  that  was  the  object  of  so  much  interest. 
All  the  officers  then  in  the  city  (and  many  had 
come  thither  on  purpose)  were  present:  and, 
all,  both  of  army  and  navy,  were  in  full  uniform. 
Nothing  could  be  more  gay  and  animating  than 
the  whole  scene.  Ever}''  one  was  attired  to  the 
best  ad  vantage,  and  the  white  dresses  and  green 
parasols  of  the  ladies  added  much  to  the  pictur 
esque  effect  of  the  scene.  The  steamboats 


THK     LAUNCH     OP     TUB     FRIGATE.  95 

came    up   filled   with    passengers,   and   were 
anchored  at  a  convenient  distance. 

The  gentlemen  took  out  their  watches  fre- 
quently, as  the  time  approached  when  the  tide 
was  to  turn  ;  for  the  frigate  was  to  be  launched 
on  the  top  of  high  water.  As  the  moment  drew 
near,  every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  noble  vessel, 
and  there  was  a  breathless  anxiety  of  the  most 
intense  interest.  The  carpenters  stood  with 
their  arms  raised,  ready  to  knock  away  the 
blocks  that  held  her.  The  signal  was  given, 
and  it  was  done.  The  frigate  began  to  move 
— every  hat  was  simultaneously  taken  off — the 
guns  from  all  the  armed  vessels  fired  a  salute — 
the  music  struck  up,  "  The  Tars  of  Columbia" 
— and  loud  huzzas  resounded  from  thousands 
of  voices.  The  frigate  glided  gracefully  and 
rapidly  along,  amidst  repeated  shouts  of  accla- 
mation, with  the  colours  of  her  country  flying 
at  her  stern  ;  and,  when  she  plunged  into  the 
water,  (which  she  threw  up  tremendously  about 
her,)  the  violent  agitation  of  the  river,  for  a 
considerable  distance  round,  announced  that 
she  had  reached  the  element  which  she  was 
never  more  to  leave.  On  her  bowsprit  stood 
the  boatswain,  who  christened  her  by  breaking 


90  ^  THE     LA.UJSOU     Of     THE     FRIGATE. 

a  bottle  of  liquor  over  her  head,  and  shouting, 
«  Hurra  for  the  Guerrier  !"  And  the  shout  was 
repeated  by  every  man  present :  thousands  of 
hats  waving  round  from  the  river  and  from  the 
shore. 

The  moment  "  the  gallant  Guerrier"  was 
afloat,  she  turned  round  majestically  with  the 
tide,  and  an  anchor,  for  the  first  time,  descended 
from  her  bow,  mooring  her  for  the  present  in  the 
place  where  she  had  entered  the  water.  The 
music  continued  for  some  time  to  play  the 
favourite  national  airs,  and  at  length  the  vast 
concourse  of  spectators  began  to  turn  their  steps 
towards  home.  Adrian  and  Octavia  could  talk 
of  nothing  in  the  carriage  but  the  scene  they 
had  just  witnessed,  and  they  gave  their  mother 
a  most  animated  account  of  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Osbrook  took  their  leave  and  returned  to  their 
own  residence ;  and  soon  after  Junius  came 
home  in  a  state  of  the  highest  excitement,  his 
eyes  sparkling,  his  cheeks  glowing,  and  full 
of  the  honor  and  glory,  as  he  called  it,  of  having 
been  on  board  of  the  new  Guerrier  when  she 
was  launched.  He  inquired  almost  immedi- 
ately for  Cornelia.  The  carriage  had  been 
sent  down  to  the  steamboat  to  bring  her  home, 


THE     LAUNCH     OF     THE     FRIGATE.  07 

and  in  a  short  time  she  arrived,  but  looking 
very  pale. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Cornelia,"  said  Junius,  as 
he  led  her  to  the  sofa,  «  was  it  not  a  glorious 
sight  ?  Was  it  not  a  show  worth  looking  at  ? 
I  never  was  so  delighted  in  all  my  life,  except 
when  we  heard  the  lee-gun  of  the  British 
Guerrier,  as  a  signal  of  surrender*  after  her 
colours  had  been  shot  away." 

"Tell  me,  dearest  girl,"  said  Adrian,  "were 
not  your  expectations  more  than  realized  ?  Did 
you  ever  see  any  thing  so  interesting  as  the 
launch  of  the  frigate  ?" 

Cornelia's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  lips 
trembled,  as  she  replied  in  a  faltering  voice, 
"  I  did  not  see  it  at  all," 

"  Not  see  it !"  was  the  general  exclamation. 

*'  Indeed,  I  did  not,"  repeated  Cornelia. 

JUNK'S. — What !  nothing  of  it  !  nothing. 

CORNELIA. — Nothing,  whatever. 

JUNIUS. — Oh !  Cornelia,  you  are  certainly 
jesting.  What !  go  on  purpose  to  see  the 
launch,  and  still  not  see  it  ? 

MRS.  CAMELFORD. — My  beloved  Cornelia, 
you  alarm  me.  I  hope  you  have  not  been  ill. 

CORNELIA. — No,  my  dear  mother,  not  at  all. 
9 


98  THE     LAUNCH     OF     THK     FRIGATE. 

But,  indeed,  I  have  been  very  much  disap- 
pointed. 

OCTAVIA. — Oh  !  pray  tell  us  how. 

CORNELIA. — Mrs.  Dimsdale  sat  with  me  in 
the  ladies'  cabin  of  the  steamboat,  till  her  hus- 
band, who  had  been  on  deck  with  the  children, 
came  to  conduct  her  up  stairs,  as  the  time  for 
the  frigate  to  go  off  was  drawing  very  near. 
She  then  tried  to  persuade  me  that  no  harm 
could  possibly  arise  from  my  going  on  deck  for 
a  few  minutes,  and,  to  own  the  truth,  I  thought 
so  myself.  But  I  told  her  that  I  had  obtained 
permission  to  go  in  the  steamboat  only  on  con- 
dition cf  remaining  all  the  time  in  the  cabin, 
and  I  could,  on  no  account,  break  my  promise 
and  disobey  my  mother.  She  then  complimen- 
ted me  by  saying  that  I  was  the  most  obedient 
and  conscientious  child  she  had  ever  known, 
and  expressing  her  regret  that  I  could  not  ac- 
company her,  she  ran  hastily  on  deck  with  Mr. 
Dimsdale,  lest  she  should  be  too  late. 

OCTAVIA. — But  could  you  have  no  vieAv  from 
the  cabin  ? 

CORNELIA. — I  had  anticipated  no  difficulty, 
but  when  I  rose  to  look  out,  I  found  the  windows 
entirely  blocked  up  with  women  and  babies,  of 


THE    LAUNCH    OF    THE     FRIGATE.  99 

whom  there  are  always  so  many  in  steamboats. 
The  shelves  or  high  seats  at  the  stern  were 
covered  with  them,  crowded  so  closely  that  they 
seemed  almost  wedged  into  a  mass.  I  climbed 
up  and  tried  to  get  a  peep  between  their  heads, 
but  ail  in  vain,  for  they  were  pressing  on  each 
other's  shoulders.  For  a  moment,  I  was  tempted 
to  go  on  deck ;  but  I  remembered  my  promise. 
Suddenly,  I  heard  an  exclamation  of  u  There 
she  goes,"  and  I  knew  by  the  shouts,  the  firing, 
and  the  music,  that  the  frigate  was  moving.  In 
vain  I  stretched  rny  neck  and  strained  my  eyes, 
to  catch  a  glimpse  between  the  heads  and  bon- 
nets; all  the  windows  were  entirely  filled,  and 
I  had  not  the  smallest  chance  of  seeing  any 
thing.  I  soon  gave  up  all  hope  ;  I  sat  down 
in  a  chair,  and  I  acknowledge  that  I  could  not 
help  crying  a  little,  though  I  took  care  to  con- 
ceal my  tears  as  much  as  I  could.  And  per- 
haps I  would  not  have  cried,  only  that  my  lonif 
illness  had  weakened  my  spirits. 

Juxius. — (Taking  her  hand) — Oh  !  yes,  my 
poor  Cornelia,  you  would  have  cried  all  the 
same,  even  if  you  had  not  been  weak  and  ill. 
I  am  certain  you  would,  for  it  was  a  disappoint- 
ment worth  crying  for. 


100  THE     LAUNCH    OF     THE     FKIGATE. 

Mrs.  Camelford  was  so  much  affected  that  i' 
was  some  time  before  she  could  speak,  and  then 
embracing  Cornelia  most  tenderly,  she  said, 
"  You  are  a  dear  good  girl,  and  from  this  in- 
stance of  obedience  and  self-denial,  at  so  early 
an  age,  I  anticipate  the  most  happy  results 
when  you  are  older.  If  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing how  much  gratification  your  conduct  has 
afforded  your  mother,  and  how  much  more  than 
ever  she  loves  you,  can  compensate  for  your 
disappointment,  you  may  now  enjoy  that  re 
ward."  Cornelia  threw  herself  into  her  mother's 
arms,  and  kissing  her  affectionately,  wept  in 
silence,  while  Octavia  sobbed  aloud,  tears 
dropped  on  the  cheeks  of  Adrian,  and  Junius 
drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"  Oh !"  said  Octavia,  « how  little  did  we 
think,  when  we  were  all  enjoying  the  sight 
from  the  gun-boat,  with  ample  room  and  unin 
terrupted  view,  that  our  poor  sister,  after  being 
three  months  shut  up  in  her  chamber,  was  see 
ing  nothing  at  all." 

ADRIAN. — Yes,  and  when  we  were  riding 
home,  I  wished  that  Cornelia  were  with  us,  that 
she  might  tell  us  what  she  thought  of  it ;  sup- 


THB    LAUNCH    OF    THE     FRIOATE  101 

posing,  of  course,  that  she  had  seen  all  that  we 
did. 

JUNTOS. — Well,  dear  Cornelia,  be  comforted. 
There  is  no  danger  of  your  having  taken  cold, 
since  you  so  scrupulously  kept  your  promise 
and  obeyed  your  mother:  and,  as  you  will  now, 
no  doubt,  continue  well,  I  hope  you  will  yet  be 
able  to  see  the  frigate  before  she  sails  on  her 
first  cruise,  though  you  have  missed  the  launch, 
which  was  certainly  one  of  the  finest  sights  ever 
seen  in  the  whole  world.  Do  not  smile,  Oclavia. 
You  are  not,  as  I  am,  one  of  the  "  Tars  of 
Columbia." 

ADRIAN. — No,  indeed.  And  if  she  was  a 
sailor,  I  hope  she  would  feel  like  one  upon 
such  occasions. 

Cornelia  continued  every  day  to  improve  in 
health,  and  when  the  frigate  was  completely 
fitted  up  and  ready  for  sea,  Lieutenant  Osbrook 
came  to  invite  the  Camelford  family  on  board, 
and  Mrs.  Camelford  herself  was  prevailed  upon 
to  be  one  of  the  party.  Junius,  taking  Cornelia's 
hand,  led  her  carefully  through  the  vessel,  ex- 
plaining to  her  its  different  parts  and  their  uses, 
and  replying,  kindly  and  satisfactorily,  to  all 
the  various  questions  which  she  would  not  have 

ventured  to  ask  except  of  her  brother. 
0* 


THE    SHOW    GIRL. 

* 

POUNDED  UPON  FACT. 

"Oh I  buy  of  the  wandering  Bavarian  a  broom!" 


FRANCIS,  ELIZA,  JEANETTE 

Eliza. — Well,  Francis,  what  makes  you 
look  so  delighted  P 

Francis. — Oh  !  sister,  have  you  not  heard  of 
the  Recito  Musico  ? 

Eliza. — Recito  fiddlestick !  what  is  it  you 
mean  ? 

Francis. — Well,  then,  have  you  not  heard  of 
the  infant  phenomenon? 

Jeanette — What  sort  of  infant  can  that  he  ? 

Francis. — Not  exactly  an  infant,  to  be  sure, 
— not  exactly  a  baby  ;  but,  according  to  the 
(102) 


THE     SHOW    QIBL.  103 

bills  that  are  up  at  all  the -corners,  a  very  won- 
derful little  girl,  that  has  just  arrived  from 
London,  is  to  be  exhibited  to-morrow  evening 
at  Horton's  hotel. 

Jeanctte. — Is  she  very  big  or  very  little  ? 

Eliza, — A  young  giantess  or  a  young  dwarf  ? 

Francis. — Neither.  It  is  in  mind,  and  not  in 
body,  that  she  is  wonderful.  You  have  no  idea 
what  surprising  things  she  can  do.  First,  she  is 
to  deliver  an  address  ;  then  she  is  to  appear  in 
the  habit  of  a  highlander,  and  to  sing  several 
Scottish  songs,  and  to  recite  passages  from  the 
poems  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Next  she  is  to 
assume  the  dress  of  a  soldier,  in  which  cha- 
racter she  is  also  to  recite  and  to  go  through  the 
broad-sword  exercise.  Afterwards  she  is  to 
present  herself  in  female  attire,  when  she  will 
play  on  the  harp,  and  dance.  "  The  whole  to 
conclude  (as  the  advertisement  says)  with  the 
Bavarian  Broom  Girl." 

Eliza. — She  must  indeed  be  a  most  extra- 
ordinary child.  But  what  is  her  age  ? 

Francis. — She  is  only  seven. 

Jeanettc. — How  can  she  possibly  do  all 
these  things,  and  not  older  than  I  am  ?  I  can 
only  read  little  story  books,  and  hem  handker- 


i04  THE     SHOW    OIBt. 

chiefs  and  towels,  and  recite  «  The  Sick  Duck," 
and  "  The  dog  will  come  when  he  is  called." 
And  I  cannot  sing  all  the  words  of  any  one 
song,  except,  "  The  Frog  and  the  Mouse." 

Francis. — It  is  no  trifling  exploit  to  get 
through  all  the  words  of  that — (patting  his  little 
sister's  head.\ 

Jeanette. — And  as  to  dancing,  I  have  got 
no  farther  yet  than  the  positions,  and  chassez 
and  balancez.  But  still,  I  heard  Mrs.  Bingley 
tell  my  mother  the  other  day  as  I  went  out  of 
the  room,  that  I  was  an  uncommonly  smart 
child. 

Eliza. — Well,  I  am  eleven  years  old,  yet 
I  am  sure  I  should  make  a  very  bad  figure 
were  I  to  attempt  to  sing,  dance i  or  recite  in 
public. 

Francis. — No  doubt  you  would, — and  this 
little  girl,  who  is  only  seven,  has,  according  to 
trfe  bills,  been  received  every  where  with  un- 
bounded applause. 

Eliza. — Well,  she  is  from  London,  and 
English  children  are  certainly  much  smarter 
than  those  of  America. 

Francis. — Eliza,  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you 
say  so  :  first,  because  it  is  not  true ;  and  second- 


THE    SHOW    GIRL.  105 

ly,  because  Americans  should  never  disparage 
their  own  country 

Eliza. — Oh  !  yes,  my  father  says  wo  may. 

Francis. — What  ? 

Eliza. — That  is,  he  says  that  all  nations  have 
their  faults,  and  that  our  people  are  by  no  means 
perfect,  and  that  if  we  do  not  perceive  and 
acknowledge  those  faults,  we  shall  never  be  able 
to  correct  them. 

Francis. — There  is  no  danger  of  our  failing 
to  perceive  them,  when  the  British  travellers 
that  come  here  take  care  to  reproach  us  with 
all  that  we  have,  and  a  thousand  that  we  have 
not.  But,  as  you  cannot  seriously  believe  that 
English  children  are  more  intelligent  than  we 
Americans,  it  is  shameful  in  you  to  say  so. 

Eliza. — Why  you  could  not  be  more  dis- 
pleased if  there  was  an  Englishman  present  to 
write  it  down  in  his  book. 

Francis. — Well,  we  all  know  that  it  is  not 
true.  This  little  girl  has  undoubtedly  been 
educated  purposely  for  a  show,  and  taught  all 
these  things  with  the  view  of  her  becoming  a 
source  of  profit  to  her  parents. 

Eliza. — Her  father  must  be  a  very  mean- 


106  TIIE  SHOW  QIBL. 

spirited  man,  to  make  his  little  daughter  get  his 
living  for  him. 

Francis. — Now  the  next  thing  is,  that  we 
should  endeavour  to  obtain  permission  to  go  to- 
morrow evening  and  see  Miss  Somerville,  (for 
that  is  her  name.)  1  expect  that  all  the  chil- 
dren in  the  town  will  be  there. 

Eliza, — Miss  Somerville  !  I  am  glad  she  has 
so  pretty  a  name.  How  much  better  it  sounds 
than  Miss  Hobson  or  Miss  Dobson  ! 

The  children  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archester  had 
no  difficulty  in  obtaining  from  their  parents  the 
desired  permission;  and  it  was  soon  .settled  that 
they  should  all  go  on  the  following  evening  to 
witness  the  first  appearance  of  Miss  Somerville. 
There  was  no  theatre  in  the  place  of  their  resi- 
dence, (one  of  the  large  and  flourishing  towns 
in  the  western  part  of  the  State  of  New  York  ;) 
and,  except  Francis,  who  had  once  accompanied 
his  father  to  the  metropolis,  none  of  the  children 
had  ever  seen  an  entertainment  resembling  a 
dramatic  exhibition.  They  went  to  bed, 
anxiously  longing  for  morning,  and  when 
morning  came,  they  thought  the  day  could  not 
proceed  fast  enough.  When  breakfast  was 
over,  they  counted  the  hours  till  dinner  time, 


THE    SHOW    QIBL  107 

and  after  dinner,  they  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  approach  of  evening, — for  their  felicity  was 
to  commence  at  seven  o'clock. 

Their  usual  tea  hour  was  six;  but  Francis 
represented  so  earnestly  the  necessity  of  going 
early  to  secure  good  seats,  that  his  mother 
kindly  ordered  tea  at  half-past  five.  However, 
Eliza  said  that  the  punctuality  of  cooks  was 
always  doubtful,  and  she  slipped  into  the 
kitchen  to  tell  Dolly  that  she  would  make  her 
a  new  needle-book,  provided  she  had  tea  quite 
ready  at  five 

"  If  she  promises  it  at  five,"  said  Eliza  to 
Jeanette,  "  it  will  scarcely  be  on  the  table  before 
half-past  five." 

The  two  girls  having  inquired  of  their  mother 
what  frocks  they  were  to  wear  at  the  Recito 
Musico,  as  it  was  called  in  the  bills,  dressed 
each  other  before  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  deposited  their  bonnets  and  shawls  on  the 
hall  table,  that  they  might  be  at  hand  the  very, 
moment  they  were  wanted. 

Mrs.  Archester,  much  amused,  refrained  from 
checking  the  joyous  anticipations  of  her  children. 
Each  of  the  girls  took  a  book,  and  tried  to  read, 
but  their  eyes  strayed  continually  from  the  book 


108  THE      SHOW     OIBL. 

to  the  time-piece.  Francis,  who  was  watching 
the  progress  of  the  sun  and  the  length  of  the 
shadows,  declared  that  the  clock  must  be  too 
slow,  and  Jeanette  ran  directly  to  the  cook  to 
apprize  her  of  the  fact,  while  Eliza  began  herself 
to  set  the  tea-table  ;  the  servant  that  usually 
performed  that  office  not  yet  having  returned 
from  an  errand. 

They  watched  their  mother,  hoping  every 
moment  to  see  her  put  up  her  sewing,  and  go  to 
her  room  to  dress  herself;  and  at  last  Jeanette, 
who  could  hold  out  no  longer,  ventured  to  ask 
the  reason  of  the  delay.  The  children  were 
much  relieved  when  Mrs.  Archester  told  them 
she  intended  going  to  the  exhibition  in  the  black 
silk  dress  which  she  had  put  on  before  dinner. 

When  they  sat  down  to  their  tea,  Francis 
despatched  his  in  a  few  minutes  ;  Eliza  could 
scarcely  be  induced  to  take  any,  saying  she  had 
no  inclination  either  to  eat  or  to  drink  ;  and 
Jeanette  left  half  of  hers  in  her  cup.  For  a 
wonder,  the  pile  of  muffins  was  not  demolished, 
and  the  honey  was  nearly  undiminished ;  and 
the  children  looked  with  amazement  at  their 
parents  eating  as  calmly  and  with  as  much  relish 
as  usual. 


THE      SHOW     GIRL.  109 

When  tea  was  over,  the  young  Archesters 
proposed  going  immediately  to  the  place  of 
performance,  saying  that,  early  as  it  was,  they 
had  much  better  wait  there  than  sit  at  home, 
and  urging  the  possibility  of  the  show  beginning 
before  the  appointed  time.  Their  father  assured 
them  that  there  was  no  fear  of  a  premature 
commencement,  no  such  thing  being  ever  known 
at  any  public  exhibition  ;  and,  to  get  over  some 
part  of  the  intervening  hour,  they  sat  down  to 
read,  for  the  twentieth  time,  the  advertisement 
in  the  newspapers,  and  the  hand-bill  of  the 
Recito  Musico  that  had  been  thrown  into  the 
entry. 

During  the  day,  Francis  had  walked  fre- 
quently past  Horton's  hotel,  in  hopes  of  getting 
a  glimpse  of  the  wonderful  little  girl,  who 
lodged  there  with  her  parents.  He  saw  nothing 
of  her,  but  one  of  Mr.  Horton's  sons  told  him  in 
which  part  of  the  house  was  Miss  Somerville's 
room,  and  he  thought  it  something  to  look  up 
at  her  window,  and  once  he  perceived  a  little 
hand  on  one  of  the  bars  of  the  Venetian  shutters  ; 
but  these  shutters  were  kept  carefully  closed 
during  the  whole  day.  In  answer  to  Francis's 
inquiries,  young  Horton  told  him  that  when 
10 


110  THE    SHOW     GIEL. 

Miss  Somerville  arrived  with  her  father  and 
mother,  she  was  closely  muffled  up  in  a  cloak^ 
and  hood,  and  that  she  was  taken  at  once  to 
her  room,  where  she  had  remained  ever  since, 
her  meals  being  sent  up  to  her.  Francis  com- 
prehended that  her  parents  would  not  allow  her 
to  be  seen  previous  to  her  first  performance, 
lest  the  curiosity  of  the  people  should  be  some- 
what diminished. 

At  last  the  clock  struck  six,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Archester  yielded  to  the  impatience  of  their 
children,  and  repaired  with  them  to  the  place 
of  performance.  Being  the  very  first  in  the 
room,  they  took  their  seats  on  one  of  the  front 
benches.  The  room  was  very  well  lighted  ;  a 
temporary  stage  or  platform  had  been  erected 
at  one  end,  and  covered  with  green  baize  ;  and 
at  the  back  of  the  stage  stood  a  screen,  behind 
which  was  a  door  that  led  to  Miss  Somerville's 
apartment. 

The  company  assembled  rapidly,  and  in  a 
short  time  the  room  was  full,  and  crowded  in 
every  part  both  by  sitters  and  standers.  Francis 
had  never  longed  so  much  for  a  watch  of  his 
own,  not  liking  to  trouble  his  father  to  tell  him 
the  time  every  few  minutes.  At  last  the  town 


THE      SHOW     GIRL 


111 


clock  struck  seven,  and  the  Jittle  heroine  of  the 
night  appeared  from  foitnvl  the  screen,  carried 
in  the  arms  of  her  father,  a  small  fair-corn- 
plexioned  man,  dressed  in  a  full  suit  of  black. 

The  child  was  beautiful,  but  she  looked  more 
like  eight  years  old  than  only  six.  She  had 
dark*  blue  eyes,  hair  of  chestnut  brown,  cut 
closely  behind,  but  parted  in  front,  and  curling 
on  her  temples  in  the  most  luxuriant  ringlets, — 
an  elegant  little  figure,  and  exquisitely  white 
neck,  and  cheeks  of  surpassing  bloom.  Her 
dress  was  a  white  satin  frock  and  pantalets,  and 
a  sash  of  pink  net.  Her  father  kissed  her  affec- 
tionately as  he  set  her  down,  and  he  then  with- 
drew to  a  chair  placed  before  the  screen,  from 
whence  ho  watched  her  closely.  She  seemed 
painfully  embarrassed  :  she  trembled  all  over, 
and  could  not  raise  her  eyes,  which  were  filled 
with  tears.  The  company  clapped  their  hands 
loudly,  to  encourage  the  little  girl  by  their 
applause. 

With  a  low  and  faltering  voice  she  com- 
menced an  address  adapted  to  the  occasion, 
and  the  first  three  or  four  lines  were  quite  in- 
audible ;  but  gaining  more  confidence  as  she 
proceeded,  she  upon  the  whole  delivered  it 


112  THE      SHOW     GIRL. 

extremely  well.  She  expressed  her  hope  of 
being  regarded  with  indulgence  by  her  new 
audience,  and  she  introduced  some  very  hand- 
some compliments  to  the  memory  of  Washing- 
ton, and  to  the  American  nation.  These  allu- 
sions excited  enthusiastic  bursts  of  applause, 
and  none  clapped  louder  and  longer  than 
Francis  Archester. 

When  Miss  Somerville  had  concluded  the 
address,  she  was  Jed  out  by  her  father,  and  she 
soon  afterwards  made  her  appearance  in  the 
costume  of  a  highlander,  having  a  plaid  thrown 
gracefully  over  one  shoulder,  and  a  blue  bonnet, 
shaded  with  a  plume  of  black  feathers.  In  this 
dress,  she  recited  several  beautiful  passages  from 
the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  sang  three  of  Burns' 
songs  very  charmingly.  Next  she  appeared 
in  a  hussar  dress,  and  repeated  with  great  effect 
the  Soldier's  Dream,  the  Battle  of  Hohenlinden, 
and  the  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  ;  and  after- 
wards sung  the  Last  Bugle.  She  then  per- 
formed the  broadsword  exercise  most  admirably. 
The  children  were  delighted,  and  the  whole 
audience  rewarded  the  lovely  little  girl  with 
loud  and  reiterated  plaudits. 

The  first  act  of  the  entertainment  being  over, 


THE      SHOW     OIRL.  113 

Miss  Somerville  was  conducted  from  the  stage 
by  her  father,  and  returned  to  her  own  apart- 
ment. Eliza  and  Jeanette,  who  now  spoko  for 
the  first  time,  broke  out  into  raptures  about  the 
charming  little  girl. 

"  Oh  !  how  happy  she  must  be  !"  exclaimed 
Jeanette  ;  "  to  see  so  many  people  admiring 
her,  and  listening  attentively  to  every  word  she 
utters,  and  to  hear  herself  clapped  every  few 
minutes.  I  wish  I  was  a  show  girl  like  Miss 
Somerville  !  I  should  find  it  much  more  delight- 
ful to  spend  my  evenings  as  she  does,  than  to 
be  sent  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock.  And  then  to 
have  such  an  opportunity  of  putting  on  boy's 
clothes  ! — a  thing  that  is  never  permitted  to  me. 
You  know  Francis  how  angry  you  were  the 
other  day,  when  you  came  into  my  room  and 
found  me  with  one  of  your  old  jackets  on." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Francis  :  "  and  I  must  own 
I  cannot  see  why  girls  should  find  any  pleasure 
in  dressing  themselves  like  boys.  I  think  they 
had  better  let  such  fun  alone.  Even  this  beau- 
tiful Miss  Somerville,  (who- certainly  looks  pret- 
tier in  boy's  clothes  than  any  girl  I  ever  saw,) 
will,  I  am  convinced,  look  prettier  still  in  the 
next  act,  when  she  resumes  her  female  habit." 
10* 


114  THE      SHOW 

The  next  act  soon  commenced.  A  small  harp 
was  brought  on  the  stage,  and  Miss  Somerville, 
dressed  as  Glorvinathe  wild  Irish  girl,  played  and 
sung,  with  extraordinary  taste  and  sweetness, 
two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Moore's  Irish  melo- 
dies. Next  she  appeared  in  a  splendid  Oriental 
dress,  as  Morgiana,  and  danced  with  a  tamborine, 
which  she  struck  and  flourished  in  the  most 
graceful  manner  ;  and  little  Jeanette  was  par- 
ticularly delighted  when  she  rolled  her  forefinger 
over  the  parchment,  and  rang  the  bells  as  she 
whirled  the  instrument  around  her  head. 

Lastly  she  came  forward  as  the  Bavarian 
Broom  Girl  with  a  cluster  of  fly-brushes  in  her 
hand.  She  was  habited  in  a  short,  wide  blue 
petticoat,  a  green  cloth  jacket,  tied  up  in  the  front 
with  bows  of  ribbon' ;  and  a  close  black  silk  cap. 
She  sang  the  popular  song  with  great  spirit, — 
"Oh  !  buy  of  the  wandering  Bavarian  a  broom  !" 
— waltzing  round  between  the  verses,  and  offer- 
ing her  brushes  to  those  of  the  audience  that 
were  nearest  to  her.  Mrs.  Archester,  in  con- 
sequence of  a  whisper  from  Jeanette,  literally 
bought  one  of  the  brushes,  giving  Miss  Somer- 
ville a  quarter  of  a  dollar  for  it.  Her  example 
was  followed  by  several  others  of  the  audience  ; 


THE      SHOW     GIRL.  115 

and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  little  girl  had  disposed 
of  all  her  brooms.  She  then  made  her  final 
curtsey,  amidst  three  rounds  of  applause ;  her 
father  came  to  her ;  she  stood  motionless  a 
moment,  then  ran  into  his  arms,  clinging  around 
his  neck,  while  he  carried  her  away.  The 
audience  retired  ;  those  that  had  bought  brooms 
taking  them  home  as  mementos  of  the  wonderful 
little  girl :  and  Mrs.  Archester  made  Jeanelte 
very  happy  by  presenting  her  with  the  one  she 
had  purchased. 

All  the  way  home,  the  children  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  charming  Miss  Somerville,  and 
the  delightful  feelings  with  which  she  must  go 
to  bed  that  night. 

Next  morning,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archester 
came  down  to  breakfast,  they  found  Francis 
finishing  a  drawing  of  Miss  Somerville  in  her 
broom  girl's  dress,  Eliza  playing  the  Broom 
Waltz  on  the  piano,  and  Jeanette  twirling  round 
the  room  with  the  fly-brush  in  her  hand.  While 
she  was  amusing  herself  in  this  manner,  there 
dropped  from  the  broom  a  small  roll  of  white 
paper,  and  Jeanette  threw  it  towards  the  fire. 
It  fell  on,  the  hearth,  and  Eliza  snatched  it  up, 
saying,  "Jeanette,  you  know  my  father  tells  us 


116  THE     SHOW     GIRL. 

never  to  burn  a  piece  of  white  paper,  however 
small,  as  even  a  little  bit  may  come  into  use  for 
something." 

It  had  fallen  almost  into  the  glowing  coals, 
and  when  Eliza  took  it  up,  it  was  covered  with 
very  small  brownish  writing. 

"  Why,  I  am  sure,"  said  Jeanette,  « there 
was  nothing  on  that  paper  when  I  threw  it  into 
the  fender.  It  was  then  perfectly  blank." 

"  So  it  was  when  I  saw  it  fall,"  said  Eliza. 

"  Let  me  look  at  it,"  said  Francis,  "  perhaps 
it  has  been  written  with  lemon  juice,  which, 
you  know,  will  not  appear  till  the  letters  are 
brought  out  by  approaching  the  fire." 

Eliza  looked  over  Francis'  shoulder,  as,  with 
much  surprise,  he  read  aloud  the  following 
words  : — 

"The  man  that  calls  himself  Mr.  Somerville 
is  not  my  father.  His  real  name  is  John  Bran- 
son, and  mine  is  Sophia  Lennox.  My  parents 
live  in  London.  Have  pity  on  me  kind 
Americans,  and  take  me  from  this  wicked  man 
and  his  wife,  for  they  stole  me  away  to  make  a 
show  of  me,  and  they  use  me  very  ill  beside. 
I  hope  by  some  accident  tKis  paper  will  get 
near  the  fire,  that  the  writing  (which  is  in 


THE      SHOW     QIRL.  117 

lemon  juice)  may  appear,  and  be  read  by  some 
one  that  wdl  rescue  me  from  my  oppressors, 
and  from  a  way  of  life  that  is  hateful  to  me." 

"  How  very  strange  !"  exclaimed  all  the 
children. 

«  The  villain  !"  cried  Francis  ;  «to  ill-treat 
this  sweet  little  girl !" 

"Dear  father,"  said  Eliza,  pulling  Mr. 
Archester  by  the  sleeve,  "  can  you  not  take  her 
away  from  him  ?" 

"  Oh  !  do,"  exclaimed  Jeanette,  "and  let  us 
see  her,  and  talk  to  her  face  to  face,  and  love 
her." 

"  How  I  pity  her  unfortunate  parents  !"  said 
Mrs.  Archester. 

"  But  I  pity  herself  still  more,"  said  Francis, 
"Dear  father,  as  you  are  a  magistrate,  you  can 
easily  make  this  wicked  man  give  up  the  poor 
little  girl.  I  dare  say  Tompkins  the  constable 
is  now  about  the  office.  You  can  take  him 
with  you  at  once,  and  bring  away  the  child,  and 
send  the  man  to  jail." 

"  Dear  father,  here  are  your  hat  and  great 
coat,"  said  Eliza,  bringing  them  to  him  out  of 
the  hall. 

(t  After  breakfast  will  be  time  enougn,''  said 


118  THE      SHOW     GIRL. 

Mrs.  Archester  ;  "  every  thing  is  now  on  the 
table,  and  I  insist  on  your  settling  yourselves 
quietly  for  a  few  minutes." 

"  Dear  father,  do  not  eat  much  breakfast," 
said  Jeanette  ;  <*  the  sooner  you  put  an  end  to 
the  sufferings  of  that  poor  little  girl,  the  better 
we  shall  all  love  you." 

Mr.  Archester  smiled,  and  the  repast  being 
soon  concluded,  he  set  out  with  the  constable 
for  Horton's  hotel.  Just  as  he  left  his  own 
door,  he  met  two  gentlemen  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  had  been  at  the  exhibition  the  pre- 
ceding evening,  and  whose  ladies  had  purchased 
brooms  of  little  Miss  Somerville.  On  Mr. 
Archester  mentioning  the  discovery  of  the 
paper,  the  gentlemen  went  into  their  houses  to 
examine  the  brooms,  and  they  found  in  them 
similar  slips  of  writing.  They  could  not  but 
wonder  at  the  ingenuity  with  which  the  child 
had  taken  this  method  of  disclosing  her  unfor- 
tunate situation. 

They  then  all  went  together  to  the  hotel,  and 
found  Branson  walking  up  and  down  the  piazza. 
When  they  informed  him  that  they  had  come 
to  arrest  him  on  suspicion  of  his  having  stolen 
little  Miss  Somerville  from  her  parents,  he  pre- 


TUB      SHOW 


119 


tended  to  fly  into  a  violent  passion,  protested 
she  was  his  own  daughter,  and  declared  that  he 
would  never  submit  to  the  authority  of  the 
Yankees.  However,  they  soon  made  him 
understand  that  all  attempts  at  resistance  would 
be  in  vain.  A  crowd  had  now  assembled  in 
front  of  the  hotel ;  and  leaving  Branson  in 
charge  of  the  constable,  the  gentlemen  pro- 
ceeded to  the  child's  apartment,  which  they 
found  locked  on  the  inside.  On  knocking  at 
the  door,  the  voice  of  a  woman  demanded  their 
business,  declaring  that  she  would  unfasten  it 
for  her  husband  only.  Mr.  Archester,  in  an 
authoritative  voice,  ordered  her,  "  in  the  name 
of  the  Commonwealth  to  open  the  door  im- 
mediately," and  she  did  so,  looking  very  much 
frightened. 

When  the  gentlemen  entered  the  room,  Mr. 
Archester  informed  the  woman,  (who  called 
herself  Mrs.  Somerville,)  that  he  was  a  magis- 
trate, and  had  already  taken  her  husband  into 
custody.  With  a  face  in  which  terror  and 
guilt  were  equally  depicted,  she  threw  herself 
back  in  a  chair,  without  uttering  a  word.  The 
little  girl  was  trembling  in  a  corner.  Mr. 
Archester  went  up  to  the  child,  took  her  hand, 


120  THE      SHOW     GIRL. 

and  asked  her  if  she  had  really  written  the 
papers  and  put  them  into  the  brooms.  She 
sobbed  so  violently  that  for  a  few  moments  she 
was  xinable  to  reply  ;  at  last  she  answered  in 
the  affirmative. 

«I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Archester,  "you  are 
telling  the  truth." 

"  Inded,  indeed  I  am,"  cried  the  child.  "  I 
am  quite  tired  of  suffering,  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  have  been  for  more 
than  a  year  travelling  about  with  this  wicked 
man  and  woman,  who  pretend  to  be  my  parents. 
I  hope,  sir,  you  will  take  me  away  from  them, 
and  send  me  back  to  my  dear  father  and  mother 
in  London." 

"  For  the  present,"  replied  Mr.  Archester, 
"  my  house  will  be  your  home  ;  and,  in  all 
probability,  I  shall  soon  have  an  opportunity  of 
effecting  your  return  to  your  real  parents , 

He  then  desired  Branson's  wife  to  prepare  to 
accompany  her  husband,  whom  he  was  going 
to  examine  at  his  office  ;  and  in  a  short  time 
the  procession  moved  forward, — Mr.  Archester 
leading  little  Sophia  by  the  hand,  preceded  by 
the  constable  in  charge  of  the  two  culprits,  and 
followed  by  a  great  crowd  of  people. 


T1IK      SHOW     GIRL.  121 

The  young  Archesters,  who  had  long  been 
on  the  watch  for  their  father's  return,  all  ran 
out  to  meet  Miss  Somerville,  as  they  still  called 
her.  She  was  now  very  badly  dressed.  Her 
frock  was  an  old  faded  gingham,  much  too 
short  for  her.  She  had  a  dingy  plaid  cloak, 
with  a  very  large  hood,  which,  from  habit,  she 
held  drawn  over  her  crushed  and  broken  straw 
bonnet,  forgetting  that  she  was  no  longer 
obliged  to  conceal  her  face  when  she  appeared 
in  the  day  time.  The  children  conducted  her 
into  the  parlor,  and  took  off  her  cloak  and  bon- 
net. She  was  very  pale,  and  had  now  no  curls, 
her  hair  being  short  all  over.  Still,  her  air  was 
perfectly  genteel,  notwithstanding  the  shabbi- 
ness  of  her  dress  ;  and  it  was  evident,  from  all 
her  movements,  and  from  her  general  deport- 
ment, that  she  was  really  a  gentleman's 
daughter. 

Mrs.  Archester  offered  the  little  girl  a  piece 
of  cake,  and  a  glass  of  currant  wine  ;  but  her 
heart  was  so  full  that  she  could  merely  taste 
them.  In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Archester  came 
to  take  her  into  his  office,  whither  she  was  ac- 
companied by  his  lady,  whose  presence  sup- 
11 


122  T1IK      SHOW      UIHL. 

ported  and  encouraged  her  ;  and  all  the  children 
peeped  in  at  the  door. 

The  examination  of  the  child  and  her  pre- 
tended parents  now  proceeded,  and  Sophia 
gave  her  deposition  with  so  much  clearness  and 
consistency,  and  answered  all  Mr.  Archester's 
questions  with  such  evident  truth  and  feeling, 
that  the  Bransons  could  urge  nothing  in  their 
own  defence. 

According  to  the  laws  of  the  United  States, 
Branson  and  his  wife  could  not  be  punished  in 
America  for  stealing  the  child,  as  that  crime  had 
been  perpetrated  in  England ;  but  as  it  appeared 
that  they  were  daily  in  the  practice  of  treating 
her  cruelly,  they  were  committed  for  their  trial, 
which  took  place  in  a  few  days,  the  county 
court  being  then  in  session.  They  were 
sentenced  to  three  months'  imprisonment  for  ill 
usage  of  the  poor  little  girl;  and  when  the  term 
of  their  punishment  had  expired,  they  left  the 
town  immediately,  and  were  heard  of  no  more. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  that  Sophia 
Lennox  was  released  from  the  power  of  the 
Bransons,  her  baggage  was  Drought  from  the 
hotel  to  Mr.  Archester's  house ;  but  none  of  her 
dresses  were  such  as  she  could  now  wear  with 


THE      SHOW      (JIKL.  123 

propriety.  She  had  long  since  out-grown  the 
frocks  that  Mrs.  Branson  had  brought  away 
with  her  from  London,  and  two  low-priced  ging- 
hams had  been  made  up  for  her  to  wear  during 
the  day,  and  at  all  times  when  she  was  not 
decorated  for  public  exhibition  ;  and  her  evening 
dresses  were  totally  unfit  for  any  other  purpose. 

Mrs.  Archester  selected  a  complete  suit  of 
Eliza's  clothes,  which,  with  some  alteration, 
was  made  in  the  course  of  two  hours,  to  fit 
Sophia  perfectly  well  ;  for  she  was  in  reality 
nine  years  old,  though  the  Bransons  had  called 
her  seven,  to  make  her  early  accomplishments 
seem  the  more  wonderful. 

Equipped  in  this  dress,  a  blue  merino  frock 
and  a  black  silk  apron,  Sophia  looked  very 
prettily,  though  not  so  strikingly  beautiful  as  she 
had  appeared  the  night  before  in  her  various 
fancy  costumes.  However,  she  had  no  desire 
ever  to  see  these  fantastic  habits  again,  as  they 
would  always  remind  her  of  a  way  of  life  which  ^ 
she  could  not  bear  to  think  of,  and  of  the  suffer- 
ings she  had  endured  from  the  Bransons. 

That  evening,  after  tea,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arches- 
ter being  engaged  with  some  visitors,  the  children 
retired  into  the  back  parlour,  which,  as  the  fold- 


124  THE      SHOW     GIB  I/. 

ing  doors  were  open,  was  sufficiently  lighted 
from  the  lamps  in  the  front  room.  Sophia  being 
placed  en  the  sofa  between  Francis  and  Eliza, 
and  Jeanette  seated  on  a  cushion  at  their  feet, 
leaning  on  her  sister's  lap,  they  drew  from  the 
young  stranger  the  following  particulars  of  her 
story,  which  she  related  in  a  manner  that  proved 
her  understanding  to  be  far  beyond  her  years. 

"My  father,"  said  Sophia,  "  is  an  officer  in 
the  British  army.  I  am  their  only  child,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  tell  you  how  much  my  parents  loved 
me.  We  lived  in  a  street  that  led  to  Cavendish 
square.  Our  house  though  not  very  large,  was 
very  handsomely  furnished,  and  we  kept  a  foot- 
man, a  cook,  and  two  maid  servants.  My  father 
was  often  absent  with  his  regiment,  and  my 
mother  was  never  happy  when  he  was  away. 
But  how  delighted  we  were  when  he  came  home ! 

"  I  was  not  sent  to  school ;  but  I  had  private 
lessons  from  several  eminent  instructors  who 
attended  me  at  the  house  ;  and  my  mother  /-who 
was  very  accomplishe'd)  taught  me  many  things 
herself.  At  five  years  old,  I  was  taken  to  the 
theatre  to  see  the  Forty  Thieves,  and  I  was  so 
delighted  that  my  parents,  who  liked  to  gratify 
me,  frequently  repeated  the  indulgence  when  a 


THE      SHOW     GIRL.  12f) 

showy  and  amusing  piece  was  performed.  After 
seeing  a  play,  I  took  great  pleasure  in  imitating 
the  actors,  particularly  those  who  sung  or  danced. 
My  father  instructed  me  in  reading  poetry,  and 
he  taught  me  to  recite  a  number  of  beautiful 
pieces,  the  meaning  of  which  he  explained  to  me 
so  clearly,  that  I  found  no  difficulty  in  giving 
every  word  the  proper  tone  and  expression. 

Francis, — But  you  must  have  an  excellent 
understanding  of  your  own,  or  even  with  the 
best  instructions  you  could  never  have  been  able 
to  recite  in  the  manner  we  heard  you  last  night. 
And  your  voice,  too,  is  so  excellent ! 

Sophia. — I  became  very  fond  of  one  of  our 
maids,  named  Nancy,  and  I  talked  to  her  when- 
ever I  had  an  opportunity.  She  was  always 
flattering  me,  and  telling  me  how  beautiful  and 
graceful  I  was,  and  that  she  had  never  seen  a 
child  that  could  be  at  all  compared  with  me. 
My  mother  disapproved  of  this  familiarity  with 
Nancy,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  rerpess  it : 
but  as  Nancy  was  very  kind  to  me,  I  could  not 
help  loving  her.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  I 
disobeyed  my  dear  mother,  and  that  I  secretly 
endeavoured  to  spend  as  much  time  with  Nancy 
as  I  possibly  could  without  the  risk  of  discovery. 
11* 


126  THE      SHOW     QIEL. 

Jeanette. — How  very  naughty  that  was  !  In- 
deed, Sophia,  though  you  are  a  visiter,  I  cannot 
help  saying  so. 

Sophia. — It  was  indeed,  and  deeply  I  have 
had  cause  to  regret  it ;  for  in  the  end  I  was 
justly  punished,  as  you  will  soon  see. 

Jeanette. — I  have  always  found  that  when  I 
disobey  my  mother,  something  very  bad  is  sure 
to  happen.  But  go  on,  dear  Sophia. 

Sophia. — There  was  a  young  man  named 
Branson,  that  came  frequently  to  our  house  for 
the  purpose  of  seeing  Nancy.  He  was  an  in- 
ferior actor  at  one  of  the  theatres,  where  he 
played  nothing  higher  than  servants,  guards, 
soldiers,  and  other  characters  that  have  scarcely 
any  thing  to  say  or  to  do,  such  as  are  called  super- 
numeraries. This  man's  intention  was  to  leave 
England,  and  seek  his  fortune  in  America  ;  and 
Nancy  informed  me  one  day  as  a  great  secret, 
that  before  he  went  she  was  to  be  married  to 
him,  and  that  then  they  were  immediately  to 
embark  together. 

Jeanette. — But  of  course  you  told  your 
mother? 

Sophia. — No,  indeed, — I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
1  did  not.  Nancy  made  me  promise  to  tell  no 


THE         HOW     GIRL.  127 

one  whatever,  and  I  faithfully  kept  my  word. 
At  last  she  one  afternoon  informed  me  that  she  > 
had  been  married  to  Branson  the  day  before  in 
church,  and  that  on  this  evening  there  was  to  be 
a  ball  and  supper  at  her  mother's  in  honour  of 
t  IIL;  wedding,  and  that  she  wished  me  very  much 
to  be  one  of  the  guests.  I  thought  this  invita- 
tion very  flattering  to  a  little  girl  of  my  age ; 
though  she  told  me  that,  if  I  went,  it  must  be 
without  the  knowledge  of  my  mother. 

Eliza. — I  am  sure  you  did  not  consent. 

Sophia. — 1  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  did,  though 
aot  without  much  persuasion  from  Nancy.  I 
knew  that  both  my  parents  were  going  to  the 
opera  that  evening.  I  had  permission  to  drink 
tea  with  a  little  girl  that  lived  in  the  next  street, 
the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Grenville  ;  and  Nancy 
said  she  would  come  for  me  and  bring  me  home 
in  the  evening,  the  footman  being  sick. 

I  drank  tea  with  Caroline  Grenville,  and  about 
seven  o'clock  Nancy  came  for  me.  It  rained 
a  little,  and  she  arrived  in  a  hackney  coach, 
which,  I  observed  as  I  got  in,  was  loaded  with 
parcels  and  boxes.  I  asked  her  why  she  had 
so  many  things  in  the  coach,  and  she  replied 
that  she  intended  in  a  few  days  to  inform  her 


128  THE      SHOW     QIEL. 

mistress  of  her  marriage,  and  give  up  her  place, 
as  she  was  going  with  Mr.  Branson  to  America, 
and  that  she  was  taking  this  opportunity  of 
conveying  some  of  her  clothes  to  her  mother's. 

Our  ride  was  a  very  long  one,  and  Nancy 
entertained  me  with  a  description  of  what  the 
hall  and  supper  were  to  be.  I  could  not  help 
showing  a  little  surprise  that  the  mother  of  a 
servant  girl  should  be  able  to  give  so  handsome 
an  entertainment ;  but  she  answered  all  my 
questions  in  a  manner  that  made  me  impatient 
for  the  delights  of  the  evening  to  begin. 

The  coach  went  over  Blackfriars'  Bridge,  and 
at  last  stopped  at  a  little  shop  in  a  small  narrow 
street  in  the  Borough.  A  fat  red-faced  woman 
came  out,  shading  a  candle  with  her  hand,  and 
said,  ((  Well  Naunce,  so  you've  corned  at  last, 
and  I  sees  you've  brung  the  child  with  you." 

li  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Nancy  ;  « there  would 
be  no  play  without  her." 

"  And  I  hopes  you've  brung  all  the  needful 
too  ?"  said  the  woman. 

"  That  I  have,  mother,"  answered  Nancy  ; 
"  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 

I  was  lifted  out  of  the  coach,  and  taken  into 
the  parlor,  a  small,  meanly  furnished  room  back 


TUB      SHOW     GIRL.  ll'If 

of  the  shop,  lighted  by  a  single  tallow  candle 
in  an  old  brass  stick.  Branson  was  sitting 
there ;  but  I  saw  no  company,  and  no  np- 
pearanco  of  a  ball.  "  Perhaps,"  thought  I, 
t{  the  ball  room  is  up  stairs." 

"We  have  been  expecting  you  these  two 
hours,"  said  Branson  to  his  wife.  «  How  late 
you  are !" 

"  Why,"  replied  Nancy,  (t  'tis  a  pretty  long 
drive  from  the  west  end  of  the  town  to  this  part 
of  the  borough.  I  believe  this  child  has  been 
asleep  the  last  two  miles." 

I  could  not  help  saying, — « But,  Nancy, 
where  are  the  ball  and  supper  ?" 

"  Nonsense  !"  answered  she  ;  "all  that  was 
only  a  joke  of  mine  to  get  you  to  come  here, 
and  to  amuse  you  on  the  road.  But  you  shall 
have  a  supper  of  some  sort  or  other,  though  I 
doubt  if  we  can  give  you  a  ball." 

f(  You  must  not  expect  any  great  things  from 
the  like  of  us,  my  little  miss,"  said  the  old 
woman  ;  «  but  as  it's  a  wedding  time,  we  shall 
have  something  good  for  supper ;  though  we 
can't  afford  to  spend  much  in  the  eating  way,  at 
no  time  " 

As   the    old   woman   ceased   speaking,  she 


130  THE      SHOW     GIB1- 

began  to  set  the  table,  and  a  dirty  girl  brought 
in  a  dish  of  broiled  sprats. 

Jeanette. — What  is  a  sprat  ? 

Sophia. — A  little  fish  very  common  in  Eng- 
land, and  much  like  a  herring,  only  smaller.  I 
believe  they  are  thp  cheapest  fish  that  are  to  be 
had  in  London.  There  was,  I  say,  this  dish  of 
sprats,  a  plate  of  sliced  cold  beef,  a  piece  of 
cheese,  a  plate  of  onions  drest  with  vinegar 
and  pepper,  a  plate  of  apples,  and  a  pot  of 
porter. 

Jeanette. — What  a  bad  supper  ! 

Sophia, — I  thought  so  indeed.  How  dif- 
ferent from  the  plum-cake,  jellies,  and  ice 
creams,  that  Nancy  had  told  me  of!  I  saw 
nothing  on  the  table  that  I  wanted  ;  but  I  sat 
down  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  chose  an 
apple,  which  I  ate  with  no  great  relish,  as  it 
was  hard  and  sour.  The  old  woman  mixed 
some  porter  and  water  in  a  glass,  and  told  me 
that  I  must  drink  it,  but  that  she  would  first 
put  a  nice  lump  of  sugar  in  it.  She  then 
carried  the  glass  to  a  closet,  and  stirred  some- 
thing into  it,  after  which  she  made  me  drink 
the  mixture,  though  I  thought  it  tasted  very 
disagreeably.  But  there  was  something  about 


TUB      SHOW     GIRL.  131 

this  old  woman  that  frightened  me,  and  I  did 
not  dare  to  object  to  anything  she  said. 

Eliza. — Poor  little  girl ! 

Sophia. — I  then  begged  of  Nancy  to  take  me 
home,  as  I  feared  that  tny  parents  would  return 
from  the  opera,  and  discover  my  absence.  She 
told  me  it  would  be  time  enough  an-  hour  hence. 
I  thought  it  the  longest  evening  I  had  ever 
known,  and  I  began  to  be  very  sleepy.  The 
old  woman  said  I  should  go  up  stairs,  and  have 
a  nap  on  her  bed,  till  Nancy  was  ready  to  take 
mo  home.  As  I  was  very  tired,  and  could 
scarcely  keep  my  eyes  open,  I  gladly  consented  ; 
and  she  led  me  up  stairs,  and  put  me  on  a  bed 
of  which  I  remember  nothing  but  the  check 
curtains,  for  I  fell  asleep  immediately. 

Jeanette. — I  have  no  idea  that  the  old 
woman's  bed  was  a  nice  one. 

Sophia. — When  I  awoke,  it  was  still  night, 
but  I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  which  was 
driving  very  fast.  "Now,"  I  exclaimed,  "am 
I  certainly  going  home  ?" 

The  voice  of  Nancy  assured  me  that  I  was ; 
and  after  awhile  the  morning  began  to  dawn, 
;md  I  saw  that  I  was  in  a  post  chaise  with  her 
and  Branson.  I  was  now  surprised  to  find  that, 


132  THE      SHOW     GIBL. 

instead  of  driving  through  the  streets  of  the 
city,  we  were  proceeding  along  a  road  in  the 
country. 

•'Where  are  we  going  ?"  cried  I. 

"Home  to  your  father,"  answered  Branson. 
"  This  is  a  new  way  to  his  house.  Do  not  you 
think  it  much  pleasanter  than  driving  through 
the  dirty  streets  ?" 

"But,"  said  I,  "I  have  been  out  all  night. 
Oh  !  what  will  my  father  and  mother  think  ? 
How  uneasy  they  must  be  !  I  wish— I  wish 
that  I  had  not  gone  with  you.  It  is  you  that 
have  made  me  so  naughty,  and  caused  me  to 
deceive  and  disobey  my  dear  mother.  Oh  ! 
she  was  right  indeed  in  forbidding  me  to  talk 
to  you." 

Jeanette. — That  she  was. 

Sophia. — «  Well,"  replied  Nancy,  «  I  don't 
believe  you  will  ever  hear  your  mother  scold 
you  again  on  that  account.  However,  hold  your 
tongue,  and  keep  yourself  quiet  ;  for,  say  what 
you  will,  I  shan't  answer  another  word." 

The  tone  in  which  she  spoke,  and  the  look 
that  Branson  gave  me,  silenced  me  effectually, 
and  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  trembled  all  over. 
"  Oh  !"  thought  I ;  «  can  this  be  my  good,  kind 


T  11  E      SHOW     O  I  H  L.  133 

Nancy,  who  always  petted  me,  and  praised  me, 
and  told  me  that  she  Joved  me  much  better  than 
my  mother  did  ?" 

We  stopped  at  a  little  inn  by  the  road  side, 
and  Branson  ordered  breakfast.  As  soon  as  it 
was  over,  Nancy  took  me  up  stairs,  and,  locking 
the  room  door,  said  to  me,  "  It  is  as  well  to  let 
you  into  the  business  at  once.  Branson  and  I 
talked  of  it  long  before  we  were  married,  and 
we  concluded,  for  reasons  of  our  own,  to  get  you 
away  from  your  father's  house,  and  take  you 
with  us  to  America,  where  we  will  pass  you  off 
for  our  own  child.  Now,  don't  look  as  if  you 
were  going  to  scream.  If  you  make  the  least 
uproar,  or  dare  to  tell  any  body  who  you  really 
are,  I  promise  you  your  life  will  not  be  a  long 
one.  We  can  smother  you  in  your  bed  with  a 
bolster,  as  the  two  little  princes  were  done,  that 
you've  read  of  in  the  History  of  England.  Or 
we  can  mix  some  arsenic  with  your  victuals,  or 
pour  some  laudanum  into  your  tea.  Why,  we 
know  a  dozen  different  ways  of  putting  an  end 
to  you  if  you  make  any  attempt  to  discover 
yourself.  You  are  to  be  called  Miss  Somer- 
ville,  and  we  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Somerville ; 

12 


134  'JHK      SHOW     UIKL. 

and  if  you  offer  to  blab,  we  will  surely  find  it 
out,  and  not  allow  you  another  hour  to  live." 

Francis. — The  vile  wicked  woman  ! 

Sophia. — I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  cried  and 
sobbed,  and  begged  on  my  knees  to  be  taken 
back  to  my  dear  father  and  mother,  and  how  she 
succeeded  in  silencing  me  by  the  most  dreadful 
threats.  After  breakfast,  we  got  into  another 
chaise,  and  proceeded  to  Gravesend.  I  suppose 
my  kidnappers  had  brought  me  from  London  by 
a  round  about  road,  to  avoid  the  danger  of  our 
route  being  traced.  At  Gravesend  we  found 
a  ship  ready  to  depart  for  Quebec  ;  and  going 
immediately  on  board,  we  sailed  next  morning. 
There  were  none  but  ourselves  in  the  cabin, 
though  the  vessel  was  crowded  with  steerage 
passengers,  all  of  whom, were  emigrants  of  the 
very  lowest  class.  We  had  a  long  and  stormy 
passage.  I  was  sea-sick  but  a  few  days,  yet  I 
was  very  miserable  all  the  time,  and  had  no 
opportunity  of  crying,  except  when  I  was  alone, 
for  Branson  and  Nancy  watched  me  closely. 

Jeanette. — I  wonder  you  did  not  die  with 
grief  before  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

Francis. — Little  girls  never  die  with  grief. 

Sophia — At  length  we  landed  at  Gluebec,  and 


THE    SHOW    oiai..  135 

proceeded  immediately  in  the  steamboat  to 
Montreal.  The  night  of  our  arrival  at  Mon- 
treal, Nancy,  when  I  went  up  to  bed,  told  me 
their  whole  plan. 

They  thought  they  could  soon  acquire  a 
fortune  by  making  a  show  of  me,  and  exhibiting 
my  accomplishments  in  public  ;  and  with  this 
view  they  had  deluded  me  from  my  home. 
Nancy  had  brought  away  with  her  a  few  of  my 
most  valuable  clothes,  and  some  jewels  of  my 
mother's.  The  old  woman  (who  was  in  the 
secret)  had  put  laudanum  into  the  drink  she 
mixed  for  me  ;  and  this  had  made  me  sleep  so 
soundly  that  I  did  not  awaken  when  they  lifted 
me  into  the  post  chaise  and  drove  off  with  me. 

Francis. — Do  you  not  suppose  that  your 
parents  sent  to  Nancy's  mother  to  inquire  after 
you  ? 

Sophia. — No ;  for  they  knew  not  that  Nancy 
had  a  mother.  As,  from  the  time  she  first  came 
to  live  at  our  house,  she  had  entertai'ned  the 
design  of  stealing  me  away  to  make  a  show  of 
me  in  America  when  she  should  be  married  to 
Branson,  this  artful  woman  took  care  never  to 
mention  her  mother  or  any  of  her  connexions 


136  THE      SHOW      OIHL. 

Jest  the  place  of  their  residence  should  be 
known  by  my  father  and  mother. 

Eliza. — No  doubt,  however,  your  parents 
made  every  possible  effort  to  discover  what  had 
become  of  you,  and  I  dare  say  they  have  not 
yet  given  up  the  search. 

Sophia. — I  cannot  describe  what  I  felt  when 
I  found  that  I  was  to  be  exhibited  as  a  public 
show,  and  made  to  recite,  and  sing,  and  dance, 
before  hundreds  of  people. 

Francis. — Did  you  make  your  first  appear- 
ance in  Montreal  ? 

Sophia. — I  did — and  my  reluctance  amounted 
almost  to  horror.  We  arrived  at  Montreal  on 
Saturday,  and  my  first  appearance  was  fixed 
for  Monday  evening  ;  a  public  ball-room  being 
hired  for  the  purpose.  In  the  meantime  I  was 
not  allowed  to  go  out  of  the  house,  except  to 
take  a  short  walk  after  dark,  muffled  in  my 
cloak,  and  my  persecutors  keeping  close  to  me, 
one  on  each  side 

Jeanette. — I  would  rather  have  had  no  walk 
at  all. 

Sophia. — On  Monday  evening  the  Recito 
Musico,  as  they  called  it,  was  to  take  place ; 
and  when  Nancy  came  in  to  dress  me,  I  felt  so 


THE      SHOW     GIRL.  187 

dreadfully  ill  that  I  almost  thought  I  was  going 
to  die.  I  cried  very  much.  She  at  first  at- 
tempted to  pacify  me,  by  giving  me  cakes  and 
sugar-plums ;  but  my  heart  was  so  full  that  I 
could  not  touch  them.  When  I  was  dressed, 
and  Branson  came  to  carry  me  on  the  stage,  as 
he  called  it,  I  began  to  tremble  ;  and  when  he 
took  me  up  in  his  arms,  I  screamed  loudly,  and 
declared  that  I  would  not  go  before  the  audience. 
Nancy  then  beat  me  severely,  till  I  cried  out 
that  I  would  do  whatever  they  pleased.  I  almost 
choked  myself  in  trying  to  smother  my  sobs. 
Nancy  washed  my  face  and  eyes,  which  were 
red  with  crying ;  and  when  this  redness  subsided, 
I  looked  so  pale  that  Branson  said  I  must  have 
rny  cheeks  painted  before  I  could  be  fit  to  go  on 
the  stage.  He  then  brought  a  small  pot  of 
rouge,  and  Nancy  held  me  while  Branson 
rubbed  a  little  with  his  finger  on  each  of  my 
ch«eks.  And  as  I  had  no  curls,  (having  always 
worn  my  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  combed 
smoothly  on  each  side,)  he  produced  some 
ringlets  which  he  had  bought  for  the  purpose, 
and  fastened  them  on  with  long  black  pins,  so 
nicely  that  they  looked  exactly  as  if  they  had 
grown  on  my  head.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
1'2* 


138  THE      SHOW     OittJC. 

Nancy  had  made  a  pair  of  corsets  to  improve- 
my  figure,  as  she  said  ;  and  this  evening  she 
put  them  on,  lacing  them  so  tightly  that  they 
kept  me  in  continual  pain, 

Jeanette, — The  corset  lacing  is  almost  the 
worst  thing  they  have  yet  done  to  you.  I  can- 
imagine  how  you  felt,  by  a  petticoat-body  I  had 
once,  that  was  too  tight  for  me. 

Sophia. — At  last  all  was  ready.  We  entered 
at  the  door  behind  the  screen  ;  and  just  within 
this  door  Nancy  stood  and  peeped.  Branson 
took  me  up  in  his  arms,  and,  ordering  me  to 
appear  very  fond  of  him,  that  the  people  might 
suppose  him  a  most  affectionate  father,  he 
earried  me  on  the  stage  and  set  me  down. 

Francis. — The  hateful  fellow  !  Now,  I  think 
the  worst  of  all  was  obliging  you  to  affect  fond- 
ness for  Branson. 

Sophia. — When  I  found  myself  before  several 
hundred  people,  all  ranged  in  rows  on  the 
benches  ;  when  I  saw  the  glare  of  the  lights,  and 
heard  the  loud  clapping  with  which  my  entrance- 
was  greeted,  my  head  grew  dizzy,  and  I  stood 
silent  and  motionless,  forgetting  to  curtsey,"  and 
unable  to  speak.  To  encourage  me  the  audi- 
ence continued  clapping,  I  was  to  commence 


T  U  E       SHOW     Ci  1  K  L.  13'J 

with  an  address  composed  by  Branson,  (who 
had  some  education,)  and  which  he  had  made 
me  learn  by  art ;  but  I  had  not  power  to  utter 
a  word.  My  heart  seemed  to  sink  within  me  ; 
rny  lips  quivered,  apd  I  shook  from  head  to  foot. 
1  heard  a  lady  on  the  front  bench  say  to  another, 
"  This  child  seems  wonderfully  timid  ;  though, 
as  the  bill  states,  she  has  performed  with  un- 
bounded applause  at  all  the  principal  theatres 
in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland." 

I  remained  silent  and  trembling,  till  I  heard 
in  my  ear  the  voice  of  Branson  telling  me,  in  a 
whisper,  to  begin  immediately.  I  could  then 
restrain  myself  no  longer  ;  and  I  burst  into  tears, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh  !  take  me  away  ;  take  me 
away  !" 

Branson  came  forward,  pretending  to  look 
compassionate  ;  and  apologising  to  the  audience 
for  what  he  called  my  unprecedented  timidity, 
he  said  he  would  pacify  me  in  a  few  minutes. 
He  then  conveyed  me  back  to  my  room  followed 
by  Nancy  ;  and,  looking  very  fiercely,  he  threat 
ened  me  with  dreadful  punishment  if  I  did  not 
recover  myself  immediately,  and  go  through  the 
whole  performance  in  a  satisfactory  manner. 
But  I  still  continued  to  cry  ;  and  at  length 


140  THE      SHOW      GIRL. 

Nancy  told  him  that  all  must  be  given  up  for 
that  evening,  as  I  was  not  in  a  condition  to  do 
any  thing.  Branson  then  said  that  if  he  were 
to  go  and  tell  the  audience  that  there  could  be  no 
performance  that  night,  they  would  be  highly 
incensed  at  their  disappointment,  and  would 
probably,  in  their  rage,  demolish  the  lamps,  and 
break  the  looking-glasses ;  and  that  in  the  riot 
somebody  might  be  killed. 

"And  if  there  is,"  said  Nancy,  "it  will  all 
be  the  fault  of  this  wicked,  obstinate  child.  If 
any  one  is  killed,  she  will  be  the  cause." 

I  then  ceased  crying,  and  listened  to  them. 
«'  1  am  not  wicked  and  obstinate,"  said  I  ;  <(  but 
indeed  I  cannot  recite,  and  sing,  and  dance,  be- 
fore all  these  strange  people." 

Francis. — I  do  not  believe  there  was  any  real 
danger  of  a  riot,  had  a  proper  apology  been  made. 

Sophia. — At  last,  Avith  a  breaking  heart,  I  con- 
sented to  do  my  best.  The  paint  which  my 
tears  had  washed  off,  was  renewed,  my  disor- 
dered curls  were  again  arranged,  and  Branson 
once  more  presented  me  to  the  audience,  who 
by  this  time  had  become  very  impatient.  I 
made  my  curtesy,  and  with  a  faltering  voice 
began  my  little  speech.  I  am  sure  I  spoke  too  low 


THE      SHOW     Qint,.  141 

to  be  heard  distinctly  ;  but  the  company  kindly 
applauded,  and  I  heard  several  persons  say  that 
they  would  rather  see  me  too  timid  than  too  bold. 

I  then  commenced  my  first  song,  and  got 
through  tolerably  well.  As  the  evening  ad- 
vanced, I  proceeded  still  better,  and  the  almost 
incessant  applause  revived  my  spirits.  My  dance 
was  so  well  liked  that  it  was  encored ;  and, 
though  extremely  fatigued,  I  was  obliged  to  re- 
peat it.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  was  not  dressed 
in  character,  but  wore  all  the  evening  the  white 
muslin  frock  and  blue  sash  in  which  I  had 
repeated  the  address  at  the  beginning. 

When  the  whole  entertainment  was  over, 
Branson  came  to  carry  me  away  ;  and  as  soon 
as  we  got  to  my  room,  he  shook  me  violently, 
because  I  had  not  run  into  his  arms,  and  kissed 
him,  and  called  him  "  dear  father,"  as  he  had 
told  me  I  must  when  I  had  finished  my  per- 
formance. 

Francis  (doubling  his  fist.} — The  villain  ! 

Sophia. — I  was  compelled  to  perform  the  next 
night,  and  the  next,  and  every  evening  for  two 
weeks.  I  was  very  miserable,  and  very  much 
fatigued  ;  but  the  paler  I  grew,  the  more  rouge 
they  put  on.  Every  morning,  Branson  made 


142  THE      SHOW     GIRL. 

me  rehearse  before  him  the  performances  of  the 
evening  ;  and  when  I  did  not  sing  or  dance 
with  sufficient  animation,  he  struck  me,  and 
punished  me  very  cruelly. 

Jeanette. — I  have  heard  of  bears  being  made 
to  dance  by  standing  them  on  plates  of  hot  iron. 
He  did  not  try  that  method  with  you — did  he  ? 

Sophia  (smiling.} — Not  exactly.  But  I  was 
frequently  shaken  and  beaten  by  him,  for  he 
had  no  idea  of  any  other  mode  of  teaching  than 
by  absolute  fear  ;  and  then  I  was  punished  still 
more  for  crying,  and  being  low  spirited,  and  for 
looking  pale. 

Francis  (Starting  up  and  traversing  the 
room.} — The  vile  savage  !  but  he  is  now  getting 
his  punishment. 

Sophia. — I  was  never  allowed  to  walk  out 
for  air  and  exercise,  except  very  early  in  the 
morning,  before  any  one  was  in  the  streets  ;  or 
else  at  a  late  hour  in  the  evening.  Then  I  was 
always  accompanied  by  Branson  and  Nancy ; 
my  face  being  go  covered  with  a  close  bonnet 
and  hood  that  I  could  scarcely  see. 

After  I  had  gone  through  all  my  best  pieces 
and  songs,  a  second  series  of  performances  was 
announced,  in  which  I  was  to  appear  in  charac- 


THK      SHOW     (URL.  J4g 

teristic  dresses  ;  and  these  were  accordingly 
provided  for  me,  under  the  superintendence  of 
Branson.  I  objected  greatly  to  assuming  male 
attire,  but  was  at  length  frightened  into  compli- 
ance. 

After  a  while,  I  became  somewhat  accus- 
tomed to  exhibiting  before  an  audience  ;  and  I 
then  found  a  little  amusement  in  performing, 
and  a  little  gratification  in  being  applauded. 
But  my  pleasure  did  not  last  long,  and  it  never 
was  equal  to  my  fatigue.  I  could  not  be  in 
good  spirits  at  night,  after  suffering  all  day ; 
and  I  thought  continually  of  my  home,  and  of 
my  dear  father  and  mother,  whom  I  never  more 
expected  to  see. 

We  travelled  about  the  interior  of  Canada, 
and  I  was  exhibited  in  all  the  towns  of  any  note. 
We  then  crossed  over  into  the  United  Sates, 
and  pursued  our  route  along  the  lakes,  stopping 
wherever  there  was  a  probability  of  drawing  an 
audience.  Branson  was  afraid  to  show  me  in 
any  of  the  large  cities  on  the  sea-coast,  lest  I 
should  be  discovered  by  some  one  from  London, 
who  might  have  heard  of  my  being  decoyed 
from  my  parents,  or  who  might  have  seen  the 
advertisements  which  they  had  of  course  inserted 


144  THE     SHOW    GIB1. 

in  the  newspapers.  We  visited  several  of  the 
western  states,  and  haye  now  come  again  into 
the  back  part  of  New  York,  and  have  stopped 
at  this  town  on  our  way  to  Albany,  where 
we  have  not  yet  been,  and  where  Branson  ex- 
pected me  to  attract  large  audiences. 

Eliza. — How  you  must  have  longed  to  get 
away  from  these  wicked  people  ! 

Sophia. — I  did  indeed.  I  believe  they  maoe 
a  great  deal  of  money  by  me,  as  the  room  was 
always  full  whenever  I  was  exhibited.  Several 
kind  ladies  wished  to  have  me  at  their  houses ; 
but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Somerville  (as  they  called 
themselves)  always  made  some  objection,  and 
gave  out  that  I  could  neither  visit  nor  receive 
visiters. 

Branson,  when  he  was  in  a  good  humour, 
talked  a  great  deal  about  the  theatre  ;  and  I 
heard  him  relate  many  stratagems  that  are 
introduced  in  plays  and  farces,  particularly  for 
the  secret  conveyance  of  letters  and  messages. 
It  was  hearing  these  things  that  gave  me  the 
first  idea  of  trying  some  plan  of  the  same  sort, 
and  I  recollected  that  my  father  had  shown 
me  the  experiment  of  writing  in  lemon  juice, 


THE      SHOW     GIRL.  145 

letters  which  will  be  invisible  till  the  paper  is 
held  near  the  fire. 

Branson  and  Nancy  drank  a  great  deal  of 
punch,  which  they  made  themselves  up  stairs 
in  our  parlour,  as  it  was  called  ;  and  for  that 
purpose  they  always  kept  lemons  in  the  closet. 
One  day,  when  they  were  both  out,  and  had 
locked  me  up  as  usual,  I  cut  some  blank  leaves 
out  of  a  book,  for  I  had  no  other  method  of  pro- 
curing white  paper,  all  writing  materials  being 
kept  from  me.  Then  pulling  a  feather  out  of 
a  turkey- wing  that  was  used  in  the  room  to 
brush  off  the  dust  from  the  furniture,  I  made  a 
sort  of  pen  with  my  scissors  ;  and  taking  a  piece 
of  lemon,  I  wrote  with  the  juice  on  several  scraps 
of  paper,  a  few  words  explaining  the  outline  of 
my  story.  I  was  that  evening  to  sing  the 
Bavarian  Broom  Song  for  the  first  time  in  public  ; 
and  when  Branson  and  his  wife  came  home, 
they  brought  with  them  the  fly-brushes.  My 
dress  had  been  completed  the  day  before. 

My  meals  were  always  brought  to  my  room  ; 
and,  when  the  Bransons  went  down  that  evening 
to  tea,  I  took  the  opportunity  to  fix  my  written 
papers  (rolled  up  as  small  as  possible)  in  the 
heads  of  the  brooms,  trusting  that  by  some 
13 


146  THE      SHOW     OIRL. 

means  or  other  they  would  get  into  the  hands 
of  the  company  on  the  front  bench.  Still,  my 
plan  was  a  very  uncertain  one,  and  I  cannot 
but  wonder  at  its  success.  But  I  was  so  miser- 
able that  I  felt  I  could  risk  any  thing  to  free 
myself  from  the  Bransons. 

Francis. — Now,  Jeanette,  you  see  the  advan- 
tage of  a  little  girl  being  able  to  write  small  and 
well.  Suppose  you  were  to  be  kidnapped,  how 
would  you  make  your  situation  known  ? 

Jeanette. — I  hope  I  shall  not  be  kidnapped 
before  I  get  into  small-hand.  However,  for 
fear  of  the  worst,  I  will  in  future  ask  Mr. 
Walters  to  let  mo  write  two  copies  a  day, 
instead  of  one,  as  that  will  bring  me  on  faster. 

Eliza. — It  is  very  well  to  try  to  improve  in 
your  writing  ;  but  Francis  is  only  jesting  ;  for 
in  our  country  there  is  not  much  danger  of  little 
girls  being  stolen  from  their  parents.  Go  on, 
dear  Sophia. 

Sophia — I  have  but  little  more  to  tell.  As 
the  time  drew  near,  I  was  almost  overcome  with 
dread  of  the  Bransons  discovering  my  stratagem. 
I  could  form  no  idea  how  it  would  go  on.  I 
could  only  conceal  the  papers  in  the  brooms, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  chance.  How  delighted  I 


THE    SHOW    GIRL.  147 

was  when,  on  offering  the  first  to  Mrs.  Arches- 
ter,  I  heard  little  Jeanette  say  to  her,  "Dear 
mother,  buy  the  little  girl's  broom  in  reality  !" 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  to  see  all 
the  brooms  carried  home  ;  and  I  could  scarcely 
sleep  all  night  for  thinking  of  what  might  be 
the  result. 


A  family  belonging  to  the  town  in  which  Mr. 
Archester  lived,  intended  shortly  to  visit  Europe. 
In  the  course  of  a  month  they  were  to  embark 
at  New  York  for  London,  They  willingly 
consented  to  tnke  charge  of  Sophia  Lennox,  and 
convey  her  to  her  parents. 

Sophia  was  much  affected  on  taking  leave  of 
her  kind  friends,  the  Archesters,  who  had  all 
become  warmly  attached  to  her.  The  parting 
was  very  melancholy  ;  and  she  promised,  with 
many  tears,  to  write  to  them  as  soon  as  she 
arrived  in  London. 

In  little  more  than  two  months  after  she  sailed 
from  Ne\v  York,  they  received  a  letter  from 
Sophia.  She  described,  in  the  most  touching 
manner,  her  first  interview  with  her  father  and 


148  THE     SHOW     CUBl. 

mother,  to  whose  house  her  American  friends 
had  accompanied  her  on  the  day  after  their 
arrival  in  London.  The  endeavours  of  her 
parents  to  discover  her  had  been  unremitting ; 
and  they  had  nearly  abandoned  all  hope  of  ever 
seeing  her  again 

By  the  same  ship,  her  father  wrote  a  letter 
of  thanks  to  Mr.  Archester,  accompanying  it 
with  a  box  that  contained  valuable  presents  for 
all  the  family  ;  and  there  is  still  a  regular  cor- 
respondence kept  up  between  Sophia  and 
Eliza 


THE    CLEAN    FACE; 

OR, 
THE   BOY   WASHED   BY   HIS   ELDER   SISTER. 


Oh !  why  must  my  face  be  wash'd  so  clean, 
And  scrubb'd  and  drench'd  for  Sunday, 

When  you  know  very  well  (as  you've  always  seen) 
'Twill  be  dirty  again  on  Monday  ? 

My  hair  is  stiff  with  the  lathery  soap 

That  behind  my  ears  is  dripping ; 
And  my  smarting  eyes  I'm  afraid  to  ope ; 

And  my  lip  the  suds  is  sipping. 

They're  down  my  throat,  and  up  my  nose — 
And  to  choke  me  you  seem  to  be  trying. 

That  I'll  shut  my  mouth  you  need  n't  suppose, 
For  how  can  I  keep  from  crying? 

And  you  rub  as  hard  as  ever  you  can — 
And  your  hands  are  hard — to  my  sorrow! 

No  woman  shall  wash  me  when  I'm  a  man — 
And  I  wish  I  was  one  to-morrow. 

13*  (149) 


FREDERICK    ORMSBT. 


MR.  ORMSBY,  a  gentleman  residing  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  took  his  family  to  West 
Point,  to  spend  a  week  of  unusually  warm 
weather  at  the  close  of  spring,  and  to  see  his 
nephew  Gustavus,  who  had  heen  a  cadet  at  the 
Military  Academy  for  near  three  years,  and 
who  was  a  boy  of  very  different  disposition  from 
Frederick  Ormsby,  being  spirited,  manly,  and 
of  a  most  amiable  temper.  Frederick,  whose 
age  was  almost  thirteen,  was  not  entirely  devoid 
of  good  qualities  ;  but  he  was  idle,  rude,  mis- 
chievous, and  took  the  greatest  delight  in  fright- 
ening and  tormenting  every  one  about  him, 
particularly  his  sister  Madeline. 

Gustavus,  having  obtained  permission  to 
visit  his  uncle  and  aunt  at  the  hotel,  devoted 
all  his  leisure  time  to  them  ;  and  being  one  of 
the  cadets  that  act  as  assistant  professors,  and 
are  therefore  exempt  from  military  duty,  it  was 
(160) 


FREDERICK     ORM8BY  151 

in  his  power  to  accompany  them  on  all  their 
walks  and  to  show  them  every  thing  on  West 
Point  worthy  the  attention  of  visiters.  These 
walks  would  have  been  delightful,  had  not 
Frederick  caused  much  annoyance  by  his  vexa- 
tious tricks,  and  (to  use  his  own  expressions) 
by  planning  frights  for  his  mother  and  sister. 
Reproof  affected  him  only  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  even  during  their  short  voyage  in  the  steam 
boat  from  New  York,  his  father  more  than  once 
regretted  that  Frederick  had  not  been  left  at 
home. 

Their  first  walk  was  to  Washington's  Valley, 
so  called  from  having  been  the  head-quarters  of 
the  illustrious  commander-in-chief. 

On  their  way  thither,  they  visited  the  Ger- 
man Flats,  once  the  encamping  place  of  a  great 
number  of  Hessian  deserters,  who  came  over 
to  the  American  army  while  it  lay  at  West 
Point.  These  fields,  formerly  a  desert  of  stones 
and  weeds,  are  now  in  high  cultiv:ition  ;  and 
at  their  farthest  extremity,  where  the  wooded 
heights  run  out  into  the  river,  is  the  cemetery, 
shaded  with  old  cedars,  and  ornamented  witli 
an  c.Iegant  monument  of  white  marble,  round 
which  are  buried  the  few  cadets  that  die  here. 


152  FREDERICK    ORMSBY. 

The  walk  from  the  German  Flats  to  Wash- 
ington's Valley,  is  delightfully  cool  and  shady, 
being  cut  through  the  forest.  The  trees  meet 
across  the  road,  while  their  tangled  roots  pro- 
ject in  the  most  fantastic  form  from  the  banks 
on  each  side,  and  between  their  branches  are** 
seen,  at  intervals,  the  waters  of  the  Hudson 
glittering  far  below.  The  house,  for  ever 
memorable  as  the  temporary  residence  cf 
Washington,  is  a  mere  cottage  ;  but  under  its 
low  roof  heroes  once  met,  and  plans  were  dis- 
cussed, whose  results  we  are  now  enjoying. 
It  is  surrounded  by  locust-trees  at  this  season 
resplendent  with  their  conic  clusters  of  beauti- 
ful white  blossoms  ;  and  a  clear  brook  murmurs 
through  the  garden,  seeking  its  way  to  the 
river,  whose  waves  roll  gently  in,  washing  the 
smooth  grey  sand  that  lies  in  front  of  the  valley. 

Immediately  behind  this  classic  spot,  ascends 
the  mountain  called  the  Crow's  Nest,  the  long- 
est and  highest  of  the  chain,  that,  extending 
along  both  shores  of  the  Hudson,  appears  to 
inclose  it  on  every  side,  giving  it,  at  West 
Point,  the  form  of  a  Jake  from  which  there 
seems  to  be  no  outlet. 

On  the  opposite  or  northern  shore,  rise  the 


FREDERICK    OKH8BY.  153 

wild  and  barren  mountains  of  Fish-kill,  far 
beyond  which  lie  the  fer.tile  plains  of  Connec- 
ticut. Looking  up  the  river,  the  view  is  termi- 
nated by  the  town  of  Newburgh,  at  ten  miles 
distance,  with  Polipei's  Island  in  front,  and  a 
fine  range  of  country  behind  ;  the  Chemungo 
mountains  (a  branch  of  the  Catskills)  closing 
the  long  perspective,  their  vast  blue  forms 
faintly  visible  on  the  remotest  verge  of  the 
horizon.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ormsby,  with  Gus- 
tavus,  and  Madeline,  took  their  seats  on  one  of 
the  numerous  fragments  of  rock  that  are  scat- 
tered over  the  sands  at  Washington's  Valley  ; 
and  while  they  were  admiring  the  prospect, 
Gustavus  (who  was  skilled  in  revolutionary 
lore)  reminded  his  uncle  and  aunt,  as  they  cast 
their  eyes  down  the  river,  and  looked  towards 
the  plain,  of  the  ball  given  there  by  the  Ameri- 
can officers  to  their  French  companions  in  arms, 
in  honour  of  the  birth  of  the  Dauphin.  .  For 
this  purpose  there  was  erected  on  the  green  an 
arbour  of  immense  length,  constructed  of  laurel 
branches  brought  by  the  soldiers  from  the  hills. 
This  rustic  arcade  was  illuminated  by  a  mul 
titude  of  little  tin  lamps,  which  have  been  kep* 
ever  since  in  the  public  store-house,  and  which 


151  FREDERICK    ORMSBY. 

are  still  used  with  great  pride  at  the  balls  given 
by  the  cadets.  On  this  occasion  Washington 
led  off  the  first  dance  with  the  lady  of  General 
Knox. 

Frederick,  who  had  no  taste  for  such  conver- 
sation, soon  rambled  away,  and  amused  himself 
by  throwing  stones  at  some  ducks  that  were 
paddling  in  a  brook  at  the  entrance  of  the 
woods,  returning  now  and  then  to  the  party  at 
the  river  side,  and  soliciting  Madeline  to  join 
him. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  f<  you 
will  find  it  much  more  amusing  to  ramble 
about  with  me  than  to  sit  here  listening  to  tales 
of  the  old  war." 

(l  Indeed,"  answered  Madeline,  "  I  am 
always  glad  to  hear  as  many  tales  of  the  old 
war  as  I  possibly  can,  provided  there  is  nothing 
in  them  shocking  or  disgusting,  and  no  particu- 
lars of  the  killing  ;  and  my  father  says  that  no 
person  of  good  feelings  or  good  manners  will 
ever  detail  the  horrors,  the  real  sickening  hor- 
rors of  a  battle,  in  presence  of  females.  But  I 
will  go  with  you,  if  my  mother  will  give  me 
permission." 

Mrs.  Ormsby's  leave  was  asked  and  obtained, 


I'  R  1!  !>  K  R  I  C  K    O  R  M  S  B  Y.  155 

and  Mr.  Ormsby  cautioned  his  children  to  be 
absent  but  a  short  time. 

Frederick  took  his  sister  towards  the  woods 
that  stretched  down  to  the  water's  edge,  a  Jittie 
beyond  the  cottage,  and  they  were  soon  out  of 
sight. 

In  a  short  time,  the  little  party  that  remained 
on  the  sands,  were  alarmed  by  a  succession  of 
violent  shrieks,  accompanied  by  another  voice 
laughing  loudly  ;  and  looking  up  the  river. 
they  perceived  Madeline  alone  in  a  little  boat, 
drifting  out  from  behind  a  projecting  point  of 
rock,  and  evidently  in  great  terror,  while  Fre- 
derick stood  on  the  shore  leaning  against-a  tree, 
and  ridiculing  her  fears.  They  all  ran  to  her 
assistance,  Gustavus  foremost,  and  Mr.  Ormsby 
supporting  the  trembling  steps  of  his  wife. 
Suddenly  a  steamboat,  on  her  way  down  from 
Albany,  came  round  the  stupendous  head-land 
absurdly  called  Butter  Hill,  and  emerged  into 
sight  with  thick  clouds  of  smoke  issuing  from 
her  chimneys,  her  wheels  throwing  up  volumes 
of  foam,  and  her  prow  dashing  aside  the  water 
with  a  velocity  that  seemed  irresistible.  The 
shrieks  of  poor  Madeline  redoubled  when  she 
saw  this  tremendous  machine  coming  on  with 


J56  FBEDBBICK    OEMSBY. 

a  force  that  apparently  nothing  could  stop,  and 
threatening  in  a  few  minutes,  to  overwhelm 
her  little  boat,  unnoticed  and  unseen. 

Frederick  was  now  terrified  himself,  and  he 
called  out  to  his  sister.  "  Oh !  Madeline, 
what  have  I  done  ?  The  steamboat  will  run 
over  you.  She  will  be  upon  you  in  three 
minutes.' 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Gustavus,  "  do  not  be 
frightened,  Madeline.  The  boat  is  too  far  off; 
there  is  no  danger."  "  We  will  get  you  imme- 
diately out  of  the  way,"  cried  her  father,  "  but 
they  will  see  you  from  the  steamboat,  and  avoid 
passing  too  near  you."  "  Where  is  the  rope," 
asked  Gustavus,  "by  which  this  little  boat  was 
fastened  ?"  "  Here,  here,"  said  Frederick, 
"  round  the  stump  of  this  old  tree.  I  proposed 
to  Madeline  that  we  should  go  and  sit  in  the 
boat  which  we  found  at  the  water's  edge,  and 
as  soon  as  I  got  her  in,  I  thought  that,  just  for 
fun,  and  to  set  her  to  screaming,  I  would  cut 
the  rope  with  my  knife  and  let  her  float  off. 
I  supposed  she  would  drift  down  to  the  place 
where  you  were  all  sitting,  and  I  only  meant  to 
frighten  her.  I  knew  that  somehow  she  could 
be  got  out  of  the  boat." 


FRBUKBIOK    OEM8BY.  167 

In  the  meantime,  having  lengthened  the  rope 
by  fastening  to  it  all  their  pocket  handkerchiefs 
and  Mrs.  Ormsby's  long  shawl,  Gustavus  took 
one  end  in  his  hand,  (the  other  being  fast  to  the 
tree,)  and  jumping  into  the  river,  swam  to  the 
boat,  by  which  means  it  was  immediately  hauled 
into  the  shore,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  af- 
frighted little  girl  was  safe  in  the  arms  of  her 
parents,  mingling  her  tears  with  those  of  her 
mother.  Mr.  Ormsby's  indignation  was  so 
much  excited,  that  he  declared  if  there  was 
time  to  reach  the  wharf  before  the  arrival  of 
the  steamboat,  Frederick  should  be  put  on  board 
and  sent  immediately  down  to  New  York. 
This,  however,  was  impossible,  the  boat  being 
now  close  at  hand  ;  and  as  Frederick  appeared 
very  penitent,  and  made  fair  promises  of  never 
again  being  guilty  of  similar  conduct,  his  father, 
at  the  intercession  of  Gustavus  and  Madeline, 
consented  to  pardon  him,  and  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day  he  behaved  perfectly  well. 

On  the  following  afternoon,  they  set  out  on  a 
walk  in  another  direction,  and  Frederick,  who 
had  been  very  good  all  the  morning,  was 
allowed  to  accompany  them. 

They  went  first  to  the  Moss  House  con- 
11 


168  FREDERICK.    OEM  SET. 

structed,  at  his  leisure  hours,  by  the  French 
cook  at  the  hotel,  and  entirely  the  work  of  his 
own  hands.  He  had  opened  a  path  through 
the  thick  woods,  (hitherto  in  this  place  an  im 
passable  wilderness,)  and  carried  it  down  the 
declivity  of  a  craggy  hill  that  descends  to  the 
river.  This  path,  though  narrow,  steep  and 
winding,  was  neither  rugged  nor  dangerous, 
and  the  trees  interlacing  their  branches,  formed 
an  impervious  shade  across  it.  At  its  termina- 
tion was  a  little  garden,  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  a  high  wall  of  rough  stones  piled  one  on 
another,  the  interstices  filled  up  with  earth 
from  which  various  wild  plants  were  growing. 
This  wall  was  overhung  with  masses  of  the 
forest  grape-vine  and  other  wood  shrubbery. 
The  miniature  garden  was  laid  out  in  walks 
and  heart-shaped  beds,  and  planted  with  flow- 
ers, among  Avhich  were  lady-slippers,  pinks, 
and  convolvuluses.  In  one  corner  stood  the 
moss-house,  made  of  cedar  branches,  trimmed 
and  cut  of  even  length,  filled  in  between  with 
earth,  and  covered  all  over  with  a  thick  coat  of 
the  rich  and  beautiful  moss  that  abounds  in  the 
woods  and  on  the  rocks  of  West  Point.  The 
door  was  open,  and  inside  was  a  sort  of  settee, 


OH  MS  BY.  169 

a/so  of  moss,  and  a  little  table  made  of  twisted 
Tine  branches.  In  the  garden  near  the  house 
was  another  rustic  seat,  or  bench,  the  back 
formed  of  small  boughs,  curiously  interwoven. 
Innumerable  birds  had  taken  up  their  residence 
near  this  charming  retreat,  and  enlivened  its 
dark  shades  with  their  brilliant  colours. 

The  oriole  darted  from  tree  to  tree  with  his 
splendid  plumage  of  orange  and  black,  the  blue- 
bird fluttered  about  in  azure  and  purple,  the 
yellow-hammer  far  surpassed  the  tints  cf  the 
brightest  canary,  and  the  cedar-bird  displayed 
his  beautiful  pinions  of  the  richest  brown,  deli- 
cately pencilled  at  the  edges  with  lines  of  fine 
scarlet,  while  the  little  humming  bird  hovered 
over  the  flowers,  and  looked  like  a  flying  gem. 

The  Ormsby  family  next  visited  the  monu- 
ment erected  by  the  cadets  in  commemoration 
of  the  gallant  Kosciusko,  who  crossed  the 
Atlantic  to  take  a  part  in  the  American  contest 
for  independence,  and  who  afterwards  so  nobly 
but  unsuccessfully,  defended  the  rights  of 
Poland,  his  own  ill-fated  country.  "The  monu- 
ment is  a  fluted  column  of  white  marble  on  a 
broad  pedestal,  simply  inscribed  with  the  name 
of  Kosciusko.  It  stands  near  the  ruins  of  Fort 


160  FREDERICK    0  11  M  S  B  Y. 

Clinton,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  plain,  and  on 
one  of  the  lofty  and  abrupt  heights  that  overlook 
the  river. 

They  then  descended  to  Kosciusko's  Garden, 
a  picturesque  retreat  halfway  down  the  rocks. 
Here,  while  with  our  army  at  West  Point,  the 
Polish  officer  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  a 
portion  of  his  leisure  hours  ;  and  he  had  embel- 
lished the  wild  and  rugged  spot  by  planting  it 
with  lilacs  and  rose  bushes.  The  cadets,  with 
the  surplus  of  the  money  subscribed  by  them 
for  the  erection  of  Kosciusko's  monument,  have 
facilitated  the  descent  to  this  romantic  and  in- 
teresting retreat,  (which  was  before  almost 
inaccessible  to  ladies,)  by  causing  to  be  made  a 
long  flight  of  stone  stairs,  firm  and  convenient, 
but  sufficiently  rude  to  be  in  unison  with  the 
surrounding  scenery. 

These  stairs,  winding  down  between  the 
rocks,  lead  to  a  beautiful  grassy  platform, 
backed  by  a  lofty  precipice  of  granite,  which 
the  hand  of  nature  has  ornamented  with  wild 
flowers  that  creep  along  its  ledges,  and  shrubs 
and  saplings  that  grow  out  from  its  crevices. 
Under  a  willow  which  droops  on  the  level 
beneath,  is  a  fountain  bubbling  in  a  basin  of 


»EKl)EKle!KOllMHUY.  161 

white  marble,  sculptured  with  the  name  of 
Kosciusko,  and  surrounded  with  flowering 
shrubs  similar  to  those  planted  by  the  hero  of 
Poland. 

On  the  northern  side  of  this  beautiful  spot 
the  rocks  are  broken  into  the  most  picturesque 
masses,  and  shaded  with  forest  trees  of  infinite 
variety  ;  their  foliage  at  this  time  displaying  the 
liveliest  tints  of  spring.  The  wild  grape-vine 
clasped  its  crooked  and  wandering  branches 
round  the  mossy  stones,  and  scented  the  air 
with  its  fragrant  blossoms ;  and  the  woodland 
honey-suckle  threw  around  the  sweetest  odours 
from  its  clustered  flowers  of  the  most  delicate 
pink.  In  front,  a  shelf  of  rock  projected  over 
the  river,  whose  clear  blue  waters  glided  far 
below,  reflecting  in  their  calm  mirror  "  the 
headlong  mounts  and  the  downward  skies." 
On  the  opposite  shore  rose  the  highlands  of 
Putnam  county ;  and  Gustavus  explained  to  his 
aunt  and  cousins,  that  in  the  year  1779,  all  the 
heights  nearest  the  water  had  been  crown'ed 
with  batteries  and  covered  with  tents,  the 
American  army  being  encamped  on  both  sides 
of  the  river  ;  and  that  on  the  eastern  bank,  a 
short  distance  below  West  Point,  is  the  house 
14* 


162  FKEDERICK    OK  M  SET. 

occupied  by  the  traitor  Arnold,  and  from  which 
he  made  his  escape  when  apprised  that  Wash- 
ington was  informed  of  his  correspondence  with 
the  British  general. 

Mrs.  Ormsby  cast  her  eyes  down  the  preci- 
pice that  impended  over  the  water,  and  beauti- 
ful as  it  was,  being  tufted  with  shrubs  and  trees 
to  the  very  bottom,  she  turned  away  her  head 
and  said  it  made  her  dizzy  to  look  at  it. 
They  then  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches,  and 
Mrs.  Ormsby  spoke  of  the  strange  and  unac- 
countable fancy,  said  to  be  felt  by  some  people 
who,  whenever  they  venture  to  the  verge  of  a 
height,  imagine  that  they  feel  an  irresistible 
desire  to  jump  down.  «  Mother,"  said  Frede- 
rick, advancing  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  "  I  feel 
that  desire  at  this  moment.  I  shall  certainly 
jump  in  an  instant.  I  shall  be  down  directly." 

Mrs.  Ormsby  turned  pale,  and  desired  Fre- 
derick immediately  to  come  away  from  the  pre- 
cipice. "My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Ormsby,  "do 
you  not  see  the  laugh  lurking  in  Frederick's 
eye  ?  He  only  intends  to  frighten  us.  Can 
you  suppose  he  has  really  any  idea  of  leaping 
from  the  rock  ?  No,  no— though  he  delights 
in  the  terrifying  others,  I  am  well  convinced 


FREUK11JCK    OHMS  BY.  168 

that  ho  will  never  do  any  tiling  to  hurt  him- 
self." 

Gustavus  then  told  of  a  soldiers  wife,  who, 
a  few  years  since,  /being,  as  was  supposed  in  a 
stale  of  temporary  derangement,)  wandered  in 
the  night  to  these  rocks,  and  falling  over  the 
precipice,  her  mangled  body  was  discovered 
next  morning,  lying  almost  in  the  river.  Our 
little  party  then  returned  to  the  fountain,  and 
Gustavus  being  provided  with  a  leather  drink- 
ing-cup,  they  all  tasted  the  water.  They  stood 
there  conversing  for  a  considerable  time  ;  and 
when  they  turned  to  go  away,  they  found  that 
Frederick  was  not  with  them,  they  looked  all 
around  but  he  was  not  to  be  seen ;  and  when 
they  called  him  there  was  no  answer.  li  Where 
can  he  be?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ormsby,  in  much 
alarm,  "  I  fear  he  has  really  fallen  down  the 
rocks.  You  heard  him  say  that  he  felt  that 
unaccountable  inclination  we  were  talking  of." 
"  But,"  said  Mr.  Ormsby,  "  I  did  not  believe 
him,  and  neither  should  you.  We  know  Fre- 
derick too  well." 

His  father  and  Gustavus  called  Frederick 
loudly,  but  no  answer  was  returned,  except  by 


154  FEBUEIIICK     ORMSBY. 

the  mountain  echoes.  The  terror  of  his  mother 
and  sister  was  extreme. 

»<  Frederick  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ormsby,  "  Fre- 
derick— you  surely  hear  us, — reply  immedi- 
ately." «  Oh  '..Frederick,"  cried  the  mother, 
"  if  you  really  hear  us  answer  at  once — put  an 
end  to  our  fears — how  can  you  keep  us  in  such 
agony?"  There  was  still  no  reply.  "Oh  ;" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Ormsby,  "  if  Frederick  yet 
lives,  can  he  allow  me  to  remain  in  this  dread- 
ful state  of  fear  and  suspense  1 — Frederick, 
Frederick — this  moment  answer  your  mother !" 

Mr.  Orrnsby's  persuasion  of  Frederick's 
safety  now  began  to  give  way  to  alarm,  and 
Madeline  trembled  and  cried.  Mrs.  Ormsby 
sunk,  nearly  fainting  on  the  bench  ;  and  while 
her  husband  brought  water  from  the  fountain 
and  endeavoured  to  revive  her,  Gustavus,  who 
knew  every  recess  of  the  rocks,  explored  them 
in  search  of  Frederick.  He  shortly  returned, 
and  said  in  a  low  voice,  (t  Compose  yourself, 
dear  aunt,  I  have  just  had  a  glimpse  of  Fre- 
derick. He  is  safe,  and  not  near  the  precipice. 
He  has  concealed  himself  in  a  sort  of  cavity  in 
yon  rock  near  the  stairs,  though  the  space  is  so 


FREDERICK    0  R  M  S  B  Y  1C5 

small  that  I  wonder  how  he  got  into  it.  He 
must  have  coiled  himself  up  with  some  diffi- 
culty." "  Do  not  let  us  go  thither  to  seek 
him,"  whispered  Mr.  Ormsby.  « He  shall 
not  have  the  gratification  of  jumping  up  and 
laughing  at  us."  Mrs.  Ormsby  and  Madeline, 
finding  that  Frederick  was  really  safe,  endea- 
voured to  calm  their  agitation  ;  and  Mr.  Ormsby 
and  Gustavus  began  to  talk  of  other  things. 

After  sitting  a  few  minutes  longer,  <<Come," 
said  Mr.  Ormsby,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  we  will 
now  return  ;  and  as  Frederick's  concealment 
will  not  produce  so  great  an  effect  as  he  sup- 
poses, he  may  sneak  out  of  his  hole  and  follow 
us  at  his  leisure.' 

They  left  the  bench,  and  were  ascending  the 
lower  flight  of  stone  steps,  when  a  violent 
scream  startled  them  all,  and  it  was  repeated 
with  sounds  of  the  mcst  terrible  agony.  "  Those 
screams  are  close  by,"  exclaimed  Madeline. 
"  They  come  from  the  place  in  which  Frederick 
is  hidden,"  said  Gustavus.  "Another  of  his 
foolish  jokes,"  said  Mr.  Ormsby.  f '  Oh  !  no, 
no,"  cried  Mrs.  Ormsby,  these  are  the  screams 
of  real  suffering." 

Gustavus  and  Mr.  Ormsby  then  sprung  to  the 


166  FEEDEEICK     OEMSBT. 

cavity  in  the  rocks,  and  saw  Frederick  on  the 
ground,  wedged  into  a  most  uncomfortable  pos- 
ture, and  sprawling  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  the  greatest  terror,  exclaiming,  "  Oh  !  take 
it  off— take  it  out — take  it  away!"  "Take 
what  ?"  asked  his  father.  "  Oh  !  the  snake-— 
the  snake  !"  cried  Frederick.  "  It  is  crawling 
down  my  back — it  must  have  a  nest  in  this 
hole."  Gustavus  had  by  this  time  got  his  hand 
down  Frederick's  back,  and  was  feeling  for  the 
snake.  At  last  he  drew  out  a  small  lizard,  and 
held  it  up,  to  the  great  relief  of  Mrs.  Ormsby 
and  Madeline,  whose  terror  had  been  nearly 
equal  to  Frederick's. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  Frederick.  "  Is  it 
really  a  lizard  ?  How  cold  and  slippery  it  felt, 
and  how  disagreeably  it  crawled  down  my 
back."  "And  you  had  not  courage,"  observed 
his  father,  "  to  put  your  hand  over  your 
shoulder,  and  take  it  off,  but  you  lay  there 
screaming  like  a  baby."  "  I  was  afraid  it  would 
bite  rriy  hand,"  said  Frederick.  "And  would 
you  rather  it  had  bitten  your  back  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Ormsby. 

"  It  must  have  fallen  upon  you  accidentally 
from  the  rock  above,"  remarked  Gustavus, 


FREDERICK     O  RMS  BY.  167 

(l  and  slipped  down  your  back  without  intend- 
ing it,  for  these  animals  are  too  tirnid  to  crawl 
voluntarily,  and  in  day-time,  over  a  human 
being." 

11 1  suppose,"  said  Frederick, ((  I  shall  be  told 
that  this  is  a  just  punishment  for  frightening  my 
sister  yesterday  morning,  when  I  set  her  adrift 
in  the  boat." 

"Most  assuredly,"  replied  Mr.  Ormsby ; 
"  and  you  have  given  us  another  proof  that 
those  who  find  the  greatest  pleasure  in  terrify- 
ing others,  are,  in  general,  very  easily  terrified 
themselves.  To  take  delight  in  giving  pain,  is 
cruelty  ;  and  courage  and  cruelty  are  rarely 
found  in  the  same  person.  However,  we  will 
not  have  our  excursion  to  West  Point  spoiled 
by  any  more  of  your  mischievous  and  unfeeling 
tricks  ;  therefore  I  shall  send  you  down  to  the 
city  in  the  first  steam-boat  that  comes  along  this 
evening,  and  to-morrow  morning  you  may  go 
to  school  again." 

Frederick  was  much  mortified  at  the  punish- 
ment in  prospect,  and  earnestly  besought  his 
father  to  allow  him  to  remain  ;  but  Mr.  Ormsby 
said  to  him,  «  The  pain  you  feel  at  being  sent 
home,  is  nothing  to  that  you  caused  your  mother 


168  FREDERICK    ORMSBY. 

and  sister  when  you  tried  to  make  them  suppose 
you  had  fallen  down  the  precipice." 

"  But  I  will  do  these  things  no  more,"  said 
Frederick.  ((  So  you  said  yesterday,"  replied 
Mr.  Ormsby, t(  after  cutting  the  boat  adrift  with 
your  sister  in  it." 

"Dear  fatherj?*laid  Madeline,  a  did  he  not 
suffer  sufficiently  for  that,  when  he  believed 
that  a  snake  was  crawling  down  his  back  ? 
Pray  let  him  have  no  more  punishment  on  that 
account." 

Mrs.  Ormsby,  who  was  the  fondest  of  mo- 
thers, now  interceded  for  Frederick,  and  her 
husband  at  last  yielded  to  her  entreaties,  and 
allowed  him  to  remain,  on  condition  of  the  best 
possible  behaviour  during  the  remainder  of 
their  stay  at  West  Point. 

After  stopping  en  the  plain  to  see  the  evening 
parade  of  the  cadets,  and  to  hear  the  band,  the 
Ormsbys  returned  to  the  hotel  and  took  tea. 
The  night  being  perfectly  clear  and  dry,  and 
the  moon  at  the  full,  Gustavus  proposed  to  them 
a  visit  by  moonlight  to  the  ruins  of  Fort  Putnam. 

Ascending  the  steep  and  rocky  path  that  leads 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain, amid  the  deep  shade 
of  the  woods,  that  resounded  with  the  croak  of 


FREDERICK    OUM8BY.  169 

the  tree-frog,  and  the  rapid  and  singular  cry  of 
the  night-hawk — they  emerged  into  an  opening 
where  the  moon  shone  brightly  do\vn,  and 
arrived  at  the  entrance  of  the  fort — whose  ruins 
are  scattered  over  a  large  space  of  ground,  now 
covered  with  grass  and  wild  flowers.  They 
looked  into  the  arched  and  gloomy  cells  which 
once  served  as  qua'rters  for  the  garrison,  cr 
receptacles  for  military  stores  ;  and  ascending 
the  eastern  rampart  by  a  few  narrow  steps  of 
loose  and  tottering  stone,  they  looked  down 
upon  the  Avhole  extent  of  the  plain  lying  far 
below  them,  with  its  gardens  and  houses,  on 
whose  windows  the  moonbeams  glittered ;  its 
extreme  point  terminating  in  a  ledge  of  naked 
rock,  running  far  out  into  the  river.  They  saw 
a  steam-boat  coming  down,  all  cast  into  shade, 
except  the  sheets  of  flame  that  issued  from  her 
chimneys,  and  her  three  lanterns  sparkling  far 
apart,  their  brilliant  light  reflected  on  the  water ; 
after  turning  the  point  her  form  was  distinctly 
defined,  as  she  crossed  the  broad  line  of  moon- 
light that  danced  and  glittered  on  the  silent 
river. 

Gustavus  then  conducted   his  friends  to  the 
western  side,  where  the  shattered  walls  of  the 


170  FBEDKEICK    OEMSBY 

old  fort  run  along  the  utmost  verge  of  a  perpen- 
dicular mass  of  rock  of  a  stupendous  height. 
Mrs.  Ormsby  and  Madeline  shuddered  as  they 
looked  over  the  broken  parapet  into  the  abyss 
beneath,  the  bottom  of  which  is  strewed-  with 
stones  fallen  from  the  lonely  ruins  ;  and  Mrs. 
Ormsby  kept  Frederick  carefully  beside  her, 
and  held  him  tightly  by  the  hand. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  the  fifes,  and  the  drums 
beating  tattoo,  ascended  from  the  plain,  and  our 
party  returned  to  the  other  side  of  the  fort,  that 
they  might  hear  it  more  distinctly.  Every  note 
was  repeated  by  the  echoes,  and  the  effect  was 
that  of  another  set  of  musicians  playing  imme- 
diately beneath  the  mountain.  It  being  now 
half-past  nine  o'clock,  they  turned  their  steps 
downward  ;  and  after  proceeding  a  little  distance 
they  missed  Frederick.  "Another  of  his  tricks," 
said  Mr.  Ormsby,  "this  time  we  will  take  no 
notice." 

As  they  proceeded  they  heard  the  most  dis- 
mal groans.  "  Frederick  again,"  said  Mr. 
Ormsby.  "  Incorrigible  boy  !  let  us;  however, 
walk  on  ;  when  he  finds  that  he  has  failed  t<~ 
frighten  us,  we  shall  soon  see  him  running  down 
the  mountain.  Twice  in  one  day  is  rather  too 


FREDERICK    ORMSBY.  171 

often  to  make  us  believe  that  he  has  fallen  down 
the  rocks.  I  wonder  he  cannot  think  of  some- 
thing new.  To-morrow,  he  shall  certainly  be 
sent  home." 

They  walked  on  till  they  reached  the  foot  of 
the  mountain ;  Mrs.  Ormsby  and  Madeline 
again  feeling  very  apprehensive  as  to  Frede- 
rick's safety — though  Mr.  Ormsby  said  he  had 
no  doubt  he  would  soon  overtake  them,  or  that 
perhaps  he  would  strike  into  another  road,  and 
be  at  the  hotel  as  soon  as  they  were. 

This,  however,  did  not  happen  ;  and  after  a 
while  rinding  that  Frederick  did  not  appear, 
his  father  became  really  uneasy,  and  Mrs. 
Ormsby  and  Madeline  were  excessively 
alarmed.  Gustavus  had  taken  a  hasty  leave, 
and  left  them  when  he  reached  the  plain — 
being  obliged,  according  to  rule,  to  return  to 
his  room  in  the  barracks  before  ten  o'clock 

Two  officers  who  were  at  the  hotel,  volun- 
teered to  assist  Mr.  Ormsby  in  searching  for  his 
son  ;  and  they  went  back  to  Fort  Putnam, 
where,  as  they  approached  the  entrance  of  the 
ruins,  the  groans  again  were  heard.  Guided 
by  the  sound,  they  went  to  the  east  side  of  the 
parapet ;  and  looking  over,  perceived  some- 


172  FEEDEBICK    ORMSBY. 

thing  moving  among  the  branches  of  a  cedar 
"that  grew  half  way  down,  "Frederick!" 
called  Mr.  Ormsby.  This  time  he  was  imme- 
diately answered.  "Here, here,"  cried  Frede- 
rick, "I  did  really  fall  down  this  time,  without 
intending  to  frighten  any  body." 

They  went  to  him,  and  found  that  the  cedar 
tree  had  saved  his  life  by  catching  him  among 
its  branches  and  holding  him  there  ;  but  that  in 
the  fall  he  had  severely  strained  his  shoulder. 
The  pain  added  to  his  fright,  and  to  his  total 
want  of  presence  of  mind,  had  prevented  him 
from  trying  to  get  out  of  the  tree,  and  he  could 
do  nothing  but  lie  there  and  groan,  being  really 
very  much  hurt. 

He  was  extricated  and  put  on  his  feet  again, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  assisted  Mr.  Ormsby  in 
conveying  him  down  the  mountain.  «  Now," 
said  his  father,  u  had  you  not  been  so  much  in 
the  habit  of  raising  false  alarms,  we  should  have 
stopped  at  once  when  \ve  heard  your  groans, 
and  had  gone  in  search  of  you  ;  and  you  would 
not  have  been  obliged  to  remain  so  long  in  the 
tree,  and  to  have  suffered  so  much  before  you 
could  be  relieved."  "  Oh  !"  said  Frederick  in 
a  piteous  voice,  "  I  feared  I  should  have  beerr 


F  UK  I)  Kill  OK     OHM  BUY.  173 

obliged  to  lie  there  all  night,  and  perhaps  die 
before  any  one  came  near  me.  However,  it  is 
fortunate  I  did  not  fall  down  on  the  side  where* 
the  precipice  is,  for  I  should  certainly  have 
been  dashed  to  pieces  among  the  stones  at  the 
bottom." 

When  Frederick  was  brought  to  the  hotel, 
his  mother  and  sister  were  much  shocked  on 
finding  him  in  such  a  condition.  His  shoulder 
was  so  swelled  that  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  had 
to  be  cut  open,  as  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
draw  his  arm  out  of  it.  He  suffered  great  pain, 
and  it  was  a  week  before  he  was  well  enough 
to  be  taken  home ;  during  which  time  he  made 
many  resolutions  of  amendment. 

In  conclusion,  we  have  the  satisfaction  of 
saying,  that  this  last  lesson  was  not  lost  on 
Frederick  Ormsby ;  and  that  he  ceased  to 
derive  amusement  from  exciting  pain  and 
terror  in  others. 


Hill  Ml  II  MM  II I  Mil 

A     000  028  694     8 


